“And yet, here you sit.”
I pull at a thread on my jeans. “I guess.”
“Are you or are you not still alive? Huh? Is this a zombie sitting up here in my house? Are you about to try and eat my face?”
“Shut up, Malcolm.” I can’t help giggling. And because he’s made me feel like the worst possible thing is almost funny, I mess everything up. “So, what’s your worst thing today?” As soon as I ask, I want to gobble the words out of the air. I already know what his worst thing is. What it is every day since his injury.
Proving my point, Malcolm doesn’t even answer me. Instead he reaches for his game controller and restarts his game. “You should probably get going on your homework.”
“Malcolm,” I say, just as if I know what words are going to follow.
“What?” he asks, but doesn’t set down his controller.
“I didn’t know how much I was going to miss you when you left.”
“Well, I’m back now, aren’t I?”
I have to gulp at that. “Malcolm, do you believe that we can make things happen? Just by wanting them super bad?”
Now he does put the controller back down and looks at me as if I have completely lost it. “What do you think, Jenae?”
I have lost it. All he wants is to play basketball again. I bet he doesn’t think it’s going to happen just by wanting it really bad. And I don’t know why I’m punishing myself like this, but I can’t help it. “Was it everything you wanted? Playing college ball?” My question comes out as a shaky whisper.
“No,” Malcolm says. He shifts around in the chair like he’s trying to find a comfortable way to sit. “It was hard. Like really, really hard. The books there? No joke. Studying and practicing twenty-four seven was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And if someone had asked me if I wanted a break? Just a second to catch my breath, right? I might’ve said yes.” Malcolm stares down at his knee. “But not like this. No way. It was hard, but it was . . . where I was supposed to be.” His voice is low and sad.
“Well, you still have us. No matter what. And maybe you can do something else,” I say, hoping to brighten his mood.
“I know.” Malcolm shakes his head at me. “But you don’t get it. Ball was what I had for me. It was my future. Don’t be coming at me saying I can just pick something else like I’m standing at a damn apple tree.”
I want to argue with him but don’t know how. When I don’t say anything, he goes back to playing his game. Slowly, I get up and start my way upstairs.
I have to fix him. I have to.
12
A New Contact
Each step, I try to think of something, anything I can do to help Malcolm. You break it, you buy it rattles around in my head. But how are you supposed to fix a broken person? When I get to the top of the stairs, I think of Rox’s number hiding in my phone. And I think of how she used to make Malcolm laugh so hard he couldn’t breathe. Maybe if I were to tell him about seeing Rox, it would make Malcolm smile. Or maybe it would make him really mad. But something has to make him see that his life isn’t over even if it turns out he can’t play basketball anymore. And maybe Rox could be the one to do it.
Once I get to my room, I pull out my phone. I stare at Rox’s number and wonder if there’s something I could text her that could end up helping Malcolm.
If I were Astrid Dane, I could probably figure this out. Each show, she’s set on solving a problem, and so far, the only mysteries Astrid can’t solve are how she ended up being immortal and why she has all those ghosts inside her.
My thumb hovers over Rox’s name. I can’t fix Malcolm’s knee, but if I can change the way he feels about being back home, maybe I won’t be the worst sister ever.
Before I have time to change my mind, I text:
My brother was really glad to hear I saw you.
Then I press send.
It makes me feel a little brave even though I just texted a complete lie. But it feels like something Astrid Dane would do. I bet if Astrid and I met in real life, we’d be friends. I click on the little plus sign to add a new contact and put Astrid in the first-name space, and then, before I can worry about how weird I must be to do this, I put Dane in the last-name space. Then I put some random numbers in for her phone number.
Seeing Astrid’s name like she’s a friend I could call makes me smile, even though it probably makes me the oddest person alive.
A few minutes later my phone buzzes with a message from Rox. It’s just a smiling face, but it’s a start.
13
Question Eight
By the time Mama gets home from work, I have started the sauce for the noodles and am cutting up lots of lettuce for a salad.
“Where’s your brother?” is the first question out of Mama’s mouth.
I’m not bothered she asks about Malcolm before me. He’s the one who’s hurting right now.
“Upstairs,” I say, not looking up from the cutting board.
She sighs and slides out of her shoes. “What’s for dinner?”
“Spaghetti and a green salad. We’re out of bread, so I’m not making garlic bread.” And because the broiler scares me. Once, I reached in to pull a tray out of the oven when the broiler was on and I forgot to put on an oven mitt. Even though my fingers only touched the top rack for a second, it still hurt really bad. Mama had me hold my fingers under cold water while Gee ran outside and broke off a piece of aloe vera from a plant on the porch. He smeared the gooey guts over my fingers, but the tips of my fingers still hurt for over a week.
“Make sure you add bread to the shopping list, okay?”
Does that count as a question? I think so.
“You’re not putting anything weird in the sauce, are you?”
I like experimenting in the kitchen, but Mama doesn’t want anything fancy. Last time I made spaghetti, I sliced up anchovies and garlic-filled olives and added them into the sauce, and Mama spit her first mouthful right out.
“No, Mama,” I say. “It’s plain, boring spaghetti.”
“Am I hearing a tone?”
“No.”
Mama pads over to me and takes a few shreds of lettuce and dribbles them into her mouth. “No tomatoes?”
“We’re out.”
“No tomatoes, no bread. Why didn’t you ask Malcolm to take you to the market?”
“I didn’t want to bother him.”
That’s seven questions already and not one of them has been about my first day of school.
Mama looks up at the ceiling, and I bet she’s wondering about going upstairs and giving Malcolm a talking-to.
She must decide against it, because she returns her attention to me. “How was school?”
Question eight. “Fine. Some of the teachers talked about the name change. I guess it’s going to be decided soon.”
“Mm” is all Mama says to that. Maybe she doesn’t care what my school is called. Then she starts tapping her foot, but without her heels on, it’s just soft smooshes against tile, not crisp, angry snaps. “How were folks, Jenae? Anyone talk to you? You talk to anybody?”
“Everyone seems nice.” Then I add, “I talked to a boy. He—”