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.
A bunch of people are lined up along the zone, handing out fliers to all the drivers.
“Now what is this foolishness?” Mama mutters, and pushes the button to lower her window. A tall woman with a face full of freckles smiles and hands Mama the bright blue piece of paper.
I see SAY NO TO NAME CHANGE! written big and bold on the top.
“Ain’t people got better things to do?” Mama says once the woman steps away from our car.
“What’s it about?” I ask, trying to read the paper that’s getting all crumpled in Mama’s hand.
We’re waiting for our turn to move up in the drop-off line, so Mama glances at the flier.
“Mm,” she says, and shakes her head. “Looks like folks are talking about changing the name of the school.”
A driver behind us toots their horn, and Mama turns and glares at them and then she moves up.
“Gee’s not going to like that,” I say. My school’s name is John Wayne Junior High. It’s named after a movie star who lived a long time ago. He made a whole bunch of Western movies, so of course my grandpa loves him. John Wayne movies are probably his favorite. Gee calls him the Duke.
“Shoot, it probably won’t happen. Not with all these people having a conniption over it,” Mama says. We’ve reached the drop-off area, so Mama leans over, putting her cheek close to me. “Go ahead and get going before you’re late.”
I give her a kiss goodbye, making sure I don’t smudge her makeup, take a deep breath, and climb out of the car.
There’s so much buzzy energy around me, I feel like I’m about to get stung. All sorts of people laughing and calling out to each other and doing coordinated clapping dance moves. It is not at all hard to imagine that I have landed on an alien planet.
Girls hug and act like they haven’t seen each other in years. No one rushes up to me to give me a hug. No one even sees me. And I’m totally fine with that.
5
Not a Danish
I walk so slowly to my first period, I get to class just before the tardy bell.
“Take your seat, please,” our history teacher, Mrs. Crawford, says, sighing at me, like she’s already convinced I’m going to be a problem. She points to a desk in the very back.
That’s exactly where I want to sit. Just because I’m quiet, people think I’m going to be one of those teacher’s-pet-type kids, sitting in the front row, raising my hand all the time, and having my homework all ready to turn in. Mama gets mad when she sees a bunch of Satisfactories on my report cards instead of Excellents, as if “satisfactory” is a bad thing.
I shuffle to the back and take the seat next to Geoffrey Mingus. He doesn’t look up. Geoffrey and I have gone to school together since kindergarten, but I think I’m the only one of us who knows that.
On the other side of me is a boy I don’t know. He has red hair that is so bright it practically burns my eyes. Red hair isn’t all that unusual, but this shade is. What’s even more unusual is even though the boy is light-skinned, he’s definitely Black, and I’ve never known anyone Black to have hair that color. I mean, it’s the princess-in-Brave red.
He also has a yellow messenger bag with little clocks on it.
I swallow so hard, I almost choke. I set my bag on the floor on Geoffrey’s side, not wanting red-hair boy to see it. It feels awkward, like we know each other somehow.
He’s smiling at me so big it freaks me out, so I ignore him and pull out my notebook and pencil.
Red Hair taps my desk. “What’s your name?”
I look over at Geoffrey. Maybe he told Red Hair to bother me, but Geoffrey doesn’t seem like he’s paying attention to me or anything else. He is slouched in his seat, rubbing one of his ears and making little ch-ch-ch sounds to whatever music must be rolling around in his head.
“Jenae,” I say as softly as I can, but Mrs. Crawford still glares at me. It’s as if Red Hair turned a big spotlight on me.
I adjust my ponytail, and sweat sprouts in my underarms. Darn. I’m a big-time sweater. Like seriously. And Mama was nice enough to tell me I have stinky stress sweat, and not even Mitchum deodorant for men kills it.
I have to get to the bathroom quick and use the wipes Mama pushed into my bag, before the stink latches onto me and has me labeled with some awful nickname. It’s hard to stay invisible if funk is following you everywhere you go.
I’m certain it’s too early in the period for me to get excused to the bathroom. I slow my breathing and try to calm myself in the hope that if I stop stressing, I’ll stop stinking.
Red Hair is drawing instead of taking notes, and I can’t help glancing at his paper, and am shocked and a little amazed that not only is he drawing a picture of Astrid Dane, but it’s also actually good. He’s got her massive explosion of hair and wide eyes, and sneaky smile.
Whoa. I wish I could draw her like that. He catches me looking, and my face gets boiling hot, like I was caught cheating or something.
When the bell rings, I pack up fast and get out of there. Since there’s only a few minutes between classes, and I have to make a quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up, I need to hustle.
Red Hair follows me, and he’s way too close.
“Jenae,” he says, and I’m so shocked I forget to keep moving.
“Oof,” he says when he smacks right into me. “You’re fast.”
I wait for him to say something else.
His grin is so big it covers his whole freckled face. And his light brown eyes are shining at me like maybe we know something about each other.
“I saw your bag! Astrid Dane, right? I didn’t know there’d be another Danish here!”
I don’t like the name for people who like Astrid Dane. Danish is a dumb thing to be called. Astrid does like her pastries, but she eats doughnuts. I have never once seen her eat a Danish. So really the only thing I can say is “I’m not a Danish.” And then I hightail it away from him and do the thing I promised myself a million times I wouldn’t do again, after I hurt Malcolm; I blast Red Hair as hard as I can with my thoughts. GO AWAY! GO AWAY!
Right before I push the bathroom door open, I glance over my shoulder, and he is gone. I feel relieved and sick at the same time. I did it again.
6
Mind Control
I know it sounds ridiculous to say I can control people with my mind, and I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t seen it happen. Twice. The first time, I was only five years old, so I couldn’t be sure, but the second time—when I hurt Malcolm—I knew for certain what I could do.