I don’t know if Dad will be up for hanging out with us after dinner, but at least he’s feeling well enough to do this. He is standing next to Mom, making his garlic-butter concoction for dipping. “Do you have enough bags?” he asks me.
“Plenty,” I say as I tear a brown paper bag at its seams and spread it out on the dining room table like a tablecloth. I layer the table and make sure every inch is covered. As soon as the food is ready, Mom will dump it on the table and we will feast.
Jason is helping me tear the bags. “Like this?” he asks.
“Yes. But tear the other side too,” I tell him.
He rips the bag and hands it to me.
Dad brings his garlic butter to the table. “Is Isaac coming?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, giving him a look that begs him not to start. He’s asked me twice already.
“I really like that young man,” Dad says.
“I know you do.”
He laughs when Mom says, “I think someone else really likes him too.”
“Mom—”
Jason sings, “Jasmine’s got a boyfriend . . . Jasmine’s got a boyfriend.”
“I do not. Isaac is not my boyfriend.”
Jason tears another bag. “He’s a boy and he’s your friend, so yes you do!”
“Jason, leave your sister alone,” Mom says. But she is laughing when she says it, so how serious can he take her?
Jason walks away from the dining room table and goes into the living room. He grabs the remote control so he can play his video game. “Okay, Mommy. I’ll leave Jasmine alone.”
“I won’t,” Dad says. “What’s up with you two? I feel like I don’t know anything that’s going on with you.”
Tears immediately rise in me, and I push them down. He doesn’t know what’s going on with me because we hardly talk anymore—not about me. I know he wanted things to stay the same, but how can they? Most of my interactions with Dad aren’t conversations at all. Just me coming into their bedroom to adjust the pillows to help him get comfortable or me waking him up every four hours so he takes his pain meds. He asks me about my day, but I just answer with fine because usually everything feels so trivial once I am standing in his room, looking at his face that still has life but won’t soon.
The buzzer sounds. Chelsea, Isaac, and Nadine are here. Jason runs from the table and opens the door to let them in, and Isaac does what he does every single time he sees my brother. They stand back to back, and Isaac says, “Man, J—you almost as tall as me!”
Jason is an ocean of giggles.
Mom and Dad come from the kitchen to give hugs to everyone. “You all are just in time,” Mom says. “I’m about to set everything on the table. Honey, can you get the crab crackers?” she says to Dad on her way back to the kitchen. He follows her, walking slow, but he doesn’t make it to the kitchen. He pulls a chair from the dining room table and sits down. He catches me watching and forces a smile. He silently mouths, “I’m okay,” but we both know he’s not. I go to the kitchen, get the crab crackers and extra napkins.
We all gather around the table to have our Friday night feast. The first five minutes there isn’t much talking, just the sound of shells cracking and mouths slurping. Then Nadine blurts out, “Oh, I missed this!”
Leave it to Nadine to state exactly how she feels. She’s always admitted when she’s sad or angry or jealous. One time, in middle school, when Chelsea and I were debating if we were going to a slumber party or not, Nadine said so matter-of-fact, “I’m not going. I don’t like hanging out with those girls.” I remember thinking that I’d never just say that. I’d make up a reason why I couldn’t go or cancel at the last minute saying I was sick . . . but not Nadine. She’s always been honest about her feelings and truthful about what she wants.
Dad says, “I missed you all too.” He wipes his hands on a napkin. “And I hope you all don’t think that just because I’m missing in action means you can stop with our Brown Art Challenge.”
“I got you, Mr. Gray,” Isaac says.
“What do you mean by that?” Nadine asks.
“I mean, I’ve been going out and learning about artists of color.”
Nadine looks suspicious. “Where’s your proof?”
“In my sketchbook,” Isaac says. “You already know.” Isaac gets up from the table and gets his sketchbook out of his backpack. He hands it to me first. I open it and scoot closer to Dad so he can see too.
After we all ooh and aah over Isaac’s drawings, Chelsea says, “One of the bonus places I went to was the Bronx Documentary Center. I wrote a poem based on their exhibit Spanish Harlem: El Barrio in the ’80’s by Joseph Rodriguez. It’s not finished yet. But I’m working on it.”
“I’d love to hear it when you’re finished,” Dad says as he leaves the table, kissing me and Jason on our foreheads and Mom on her lips. “You all enjoy the rest of the night. I’m going to go rest.” Dad goes back to his room, and I see worry spread all over Mom’s face. Worry and sadness.
“We’ll clean up, Mrs. Gray,” Chelsea says. “Thanks for having us over.”
Mom joins Dad in their bedroom.
Jason washes his hands and runs back to his video game in the living room. “Want to play with me, Isaac?”
“Of course,” Isaac says.
The day sky has shifted now. It isn’t dark or light, somewhere in between. Usually, this is the time of day Mom gets the house settled for the night—giving Dad his evening meds, putting away the dishes, closing the curtains. But I leave them open.
The weekend goes by too fast, like always. Monday is dragging. After lunch we’re walking to our classes, and Chelsea keeps complaining about her club. “Jasmine, I’m serious. I don’t want to go back to the All-We-Read-Are-Dead-White-Poets Poetry Club. But there’s no other club I want to be in. What am I going to do? Ms. Hawkins says I have to decide soon.”
“I don’t know, Chelsea, what about Justice by the Numbers?”
“You know how much I hate math,” she says as we climb to the second floor.
“But isn’t it about learning statistics and understanding how those stats impact Washington Heights and other neighborhoods in New York?” I ask. “I think they talk about redlining, gentrification, and—”
“You lost me at statistics,” Chelsea says. “Maybe we can start our own club?”
“We as in . . .”
“Me and you.”
“I’m already in a club!” I say. “Besides, what would our club be about?”
Chelsea shrugs. “Aren’t you tired of dealing with Meg? You could quit the ensemble, and we can do our own thing.”
We get to my science class and stop at the door. James enters the classroom, and when Chelsea sees him all of a sudden she is no longer interested in a new club. She whispers to me, “James Bradford is in your class? You get to spend an hour with James Bradford every afternoon?”
It is so funny to me that Chelsea says James’s whole name like he is a celebrity or a president, or someone important enough to be called by his full name.