Gym is awful, but I survive.
After gym I discover Blade at a drinking fountain, as predicted. She drinks a lot of water because California is going through a drought. She thinks it’s amazing that water is unlimited in Pennsylvania.
“I was sort of looking for you,” I say. “Here.” I hand her the shoelace package. “It’s my backup gift for you.” I look at the ceiling. Bah-boom. “Surprise.”
“I knew you were my Secret Santa! I knew it!” Blade says. “You’re such a good artist! The bunny card was amazing!”
Wow. I lean over and take a long, fake sip of water, and when I surface again, Blade is dangling the unwrapped shoelaces not like three scary snakes but like one perfect present.
“Siiiiiick,” she says. Which sounds…wrong. But Blade goes, “?‘Sick’ is a compliment where I come from,” and I go, “Oh, good!”
This seems like the right moment to run away.
But then Blade takes one of the black shoelaces and ties it around her wrist, which you’d think would be impossible to do by yourself—except, Blade is very coordinated. Athletic, practically.
“Ta-da,” she says.
Just as she finishes triple-knotting the makeshift bracelet, I reach out and help her. “No, here,” she says, and Blade takes my wrist and ties the other shoelace around it. Everything that isn’t my wrist itches and twitches and tingles and bah-booms at the same time. I have to force myself to talk.
“I didn’t realize shoelaces could be bracelets,” I say.
I feel like an empty mug that’s being filled with hot chocolate. Like I’ve been getting warmer all week, and I finally found the hidden prize.
“Twins,” Blade says, holding her wrist up to mine. They almost touch.
“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”
Blade nods, and a speck of dandruff falls from her head like a snowflake. I make a wish on it.
The bell goes off. It rings and rings even when it stops ringing.
Blade says, “Social studies,” I say, “Band practice,” and we make the same yuck face before heading in opposite directions.
But then she turns back around. “Hey, Sparkles—what’s your real name?”
I catch sight of the hall monitor at the end of the corridor, five seconds away from giving us our first warning.
My lips go to say Samantha, but my mouth says, and just barely, “Flame.”
Blade smiles. Her braces shine. “Flame. Huh. And they call me weird.”
“This is your first warning, ladies,” the hall monitor says.
We pivot from one another to head to our classes, but my Mary Janes turn me right around, squeak. “Blade?” I whisper.
“Yeah, Flame?”
“Second warning, ladies.” Now the hall monitor is walking toward us.
“It’s actually Sam,” I blurt. “My name is Sam.”
It’s the first time I’ve corrected somebody in nearly a year. I brace myself to hear a joke about how Sam’s a boy’s name. To get teased. But Blade shimmies her wrist above her head, and the skull shoelace dances at the end of her arm. “Your secret’s safe with me, Sam.”
And right as the hall monitor arrives at my side, I say, “Sick.” And this time, I’m not whispering.
The Beans and Rice Chronicles of Isaiah Dunn
KELLY J. BAPTIST
DECEMBER 31
“This gonna be one of them years,” Mama says as we watch the ball drop on New Year’s. She doesn’t look at me when she says it, just stares at the TV.
“What you mean, Mama?” I ask. But she’s holding tight to one of her bottles and takes a long swig instead of answering.
My stomach starts doing weird karate chops, but since my best friend, Sneaky, is here, I don’t ask any more questions. When the fireworks start, me and Sneaky turn off the lamp, run to the window, and pull open the curtains to watch. The colors from the fireworks and the light from the TV dance around our dark living room. They make Mama’s face look funny. When I glance at her, I see that her eyes are sad.
“Mama, should I wake Charlie up?” I ask.
Mama shakes her head. “Nah, let that baby sleep.” She stops looking at the TV and stares at my sister, who’s sucking on two fingers like a baby and cuddling up with her stuffed bunny. Mama gets up and puts a blanket on Charlie.
“You spending the night, Aaron?” she asks Sneaky. Mama’s ‘bout the only one who calls Sneaky by his real name. Even his own mama calls him Sneaky, and that’s because when he was younger he was always sneaking something. Still does.
“Yeah, I think so,” Sneaky says from the window. His mom is having an adults-only party in their apartment, so she sent him down here.
“Don’t y’all be up too late,” Mama says, taking her bottle with her. She always rips off the labels, but I know it’s not pop.