As we file out for sixth period, Aubrey lets his bag hit mine. “See ya later!”
“Y-yeah,” I say, stuttering a little, which is dumb, but I don’t know what to do with all of Aubrey’s enthusiasm. It’s too much.
Maya Cruz gives me a small smile as she passes me, and I wonder if she’s thinking how strange it is that someone is talking to me. Maya’s nice, but she was one of the girls who got invited to Emory’s party, and I’m not used to her smiling at me.
When I get out of sixth period and start to head home, I find out by later, Aubrey didn’t mean tomorrow, he meant after school, because I hear him hollering my name even though I’m already halfway down the street. Everyone turns to stare, and I freeze. That makes it really easy for him to catch up to me.
“What?” I demand, my voice low and angry. “What do you want?” All the good feeling I had toward Aubrey evaporates like hot breath fogging up glass.
Aubrey’s smile takes the smallest dip. “J-j-just saying hi! Are you going home?”
“You can’t just shout at people,” I say. My face feels hot. It feels like hundreds of eyes are pointed at me. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, making it clear that our conversation is over. Then I turn away and start walking down the street again, keeping my head down and holding my bag tight against my side. I don’t relax until I get two blocks away.
15
Red Vines
That puts me right in front of the store that sells my favorite candy, and I figure I deserve something sweet.
I head straight for the candy aisle, hoping there will be a package of Red Vines. Sometimes there’s only black licorice, and no way am I eating a mouthful of bitter yuck. Other times they only have the Twizzlers brand, and that’s like eating a bunch of sticky wax. But the blue-and-white-striped box is right there, filled with fat red straws of yum.
The only thing better than walking in the sunshine and eating Red Vines is watching Astrid Dane while eating Red Vines.
As I turn the corner of our block, already thinking how I can probably manage at least a few episodes of Astrid Dane before Mama gets home, a voice beckons to me.
“Hola, Jenae!”
A big, wide smile busts out all over my face. “Tía Rosalie!”
Tía Rosalie lives a few houses down from us, and even though she’s not my aunt, I’ve called her Tía for as long as I can remember. Malcolm does too. I think everyone in the neighborhood does.
She sets her garden hose on the grass and comes down her walkway, rolling her hips like she’s about ready to dance. She says big women are the ones who really know how to move, and I guess she’s right, because she sure can shake it.
“Your favorite hasn’t changed, eh, Jenae?” she asks, nodding at my candy. She takes off her gardening gloves and tucks them under an arm.
“Mm-hm” is all I can manage with my mouth full of licorice.
She reaches over and flicks one of my braids. I have two today. Running down the sides of my head like a railroad. “Tell me, Jenae, how do you feel about starting junior high?”
Tía Rosalie knows everything about everyone. Mama doesn’t like it one bit. “Okay, I guess,” I say.
“Have you heard about the name change?” she asks.
I nod, but then I admit, “Some people were passing out fliers, but I don’t really know much about it.”
Tía’s eyes start to sparkle. “Sylvia Mendez Junior High. That will be the new name! About time they honor our community.”
“Our?” I ask.
“Mexican,” Tía Rosalie says proudly, pointing a thumb at herself. Then she adds, “Puerto Rican too, of course, because Sylvia Mendez was both, but even for the Colombians and Salvadorans and Dominicans.” She throws her arms wide. “There are many, many Latino cultures here, but on this, we are one.”
“But,” I say. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. “Since it’s always been John Wayne Junior High, can the name just get changed?”
Tía Rosalie nods. “The school district decides,” she says. “There will be a board meeting soon, and then we’ll get the new name.” She sounds as if she already knows what’s going to happen. “I’ll be so happy when they change it! I’ve been telling my grandkids all about it. Violeta will start there next year.”
“Gee is gonna be mad,” I say quietly.
“How is Grady?” Tía asks. “In Vegas, no?”
“Yep,” I say. This is the type of thing Mama complains about. She doesn’t know how Tía Rosalie can know the things she knows. Mama thinks Tía spies on everyone, but since she spends most of her time out front gardening, she probably just sees and hears all the goings-on.
“Ach, such a rolling stone, that man. I am praying for him,” she says. Then she blows me a kiss to send me on my way.
At home, I ask Malcolm why Tía Rosalie would be praying for Gee.
“You know Tía,” he says. “Always praying for somebody.”
I wonder if she’s praying for Malcolm.
“Malcolm, would you care if they changed the name of the school?” All of his basketball trophies from his junior high team say John Wayne on them.
“Nope,” he says. “Doesn’t make any difference to me.”
“But . . .” I want to say if the name changes, it would be like me and Malcolm went to different schools, but I know how silly that would sound. But the truth is, I like following behind him.
“It’s the same school, Jenae. What do you care what it’s called?” He sounds annoyed now, and I know I need to leave him alone. I wish he wasn’t so grumpy all the time.
Before I start my homework, I take out my phone and try to think of something else I can text Rox. After rejecting all sorts of dumb ideas, I finally type:
How can I get Malcolm to laugh?
I think it’s pretty clever, because I don’t actually say he’s not laughing, but Rox is smart enough to read between the lines.
Rox doesn’t answer right away, but eventually she does.
Have him watch old episodes of Martin.
I nod as I read her text. She definitely knows my brother. She’s going to help me fix him.
16
An Origin Story
The next day, when I get to school, I’m not so surprised to see Aubrey waiting for me outside of history.
“What does your mom do?” he asks.
It’s a strange way to say hello. Even I know how to say hello and goodbye better than Aubrey.
“She’s a marketing director.” I shrug after saying it, as if I know what that means.
Aubrey nods like he knows what it means. “My mom just got a job in a restaurant. In Chicago she did people’s taxes from home, but she was always practicing her cooking and watching those chef-competition shows.”
“That’s . . .” I stop because I don’t know what it is. Aubrey waits for me to finish my sentence. “Interesting.” It’s all I can think of.
“Not really. But her food is.”
I slide past Aubrey into history, and of course he trails right behind me.