Things We Couldn't Say

by Jay Coles

Genres: Young Adult

Synopsis

There's always been a hole in Gio's life. Not because he's into both guys and girls. Not because his father has some drinking issues. Not because his friends are always bringing him their drama. No, the hole in Gio's life takes the shape of his birth mom, who left Gio, his brother, and his father when Gio was nine years old. For eight years, he never heard a word from her...and now, just as he's started to get his life together, she's back.

It's hard for Gio to know what to do. Can he forgive her like she wants to be forgiven? Or should he tell her she lost her chance to be in his life? Complicating things further, Gio's started to hang out with David, a new guy on the basketball team. Are they friends? More than friends? At first, Gio's not sure...especially because he's not sure what he wants from anyone right now.

There are no easy answers to love - whether it's family love or friend love or romantic love. In Things We Couldn't Say, Jay Coles, acclaimed author of Tyler Johnson Was Here, shows us a guy trying to navigate love in all its ambiguity - hoping at the other end he'll be able to figure out who is and who he should be.

Release date: September 21, 2021

Publisher: Scholastic Audio

Sample

I’M SO BORED DURING Mrs. Oberst’s lesson on Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, I could literally kill an actual mockingbird right now.

And I mean, it’s not just that her voice sounds like a quail that has a rubber duck stuck in its throat. To tell the truth, I’m not into the whole notion that Harper Lee wrote this book to talk about how bad racism in America is. It’s not a book about racism. It’s a book about white people’s feelings on racism.

I try my best to tune out Mrs. Oberst’s lesson, like I do with most other lessons of hers. The problem is, when I do that, I get trapped in my thoughts. And sometimes my thoughts transport me to dark places.

Like now. My thoughts transport me back to when my birth mom walked out on the family.

My mom opens the front door wide, so I can see the rain splashing in the street. She waves at me with tears in the corners of her eyes and says, “Bye, bye, G-Bug!”

Some of her hair is in her face as she takes a step out the door, the rain getting her all wet, the thunder roaring in the distance. I want to reach out and grab her, maybe protect her.

But it doesn’t work. My hands don’t work.

I want to call after her, but my voice fails me. I want to take a step forward, but I can’t.

Something tugs at me on the inside, but I don’t know what it is. She gets farther and farther away from me. Darkness creeps from all around and swallows her.

Thick tears roll down my cheeks, working fine.

Something touches my back. I can tell it’s Pops by the way the hand feels. Hard and calloused. But I stay focused on the darkness as it completely consumes her and sneaks over to me. The thunder and sirens get louder and closer—loud enough for me to realize this might just be how I’m going to feel forever.

Mrs. Oberst slams a book on my desk to bring me back. I jolt in my seat, nearly falling out, causing some of my classmates to crack up.

“What does the character Atticus represent?” Mrs. Oberst, in her polka-dotted dress and glasses on the bridge of her white, pointed nose, asks the class. She walks around the aisles of the classroom with kind of a strut, like she’s not one to play with. And with the amount of detention slips she’s written, I’d say she isn’t actually one to mess with.

Ayesha Chamberlain, one of my best friends since elementary school, raises her hand. She’s my Black best friend. Olly is my other bestie, and he’s white, but if you ask him, he’ll try to say he’s beige because he’s not like other white people. Olly’s dope and I wouldn’t trade his white—I mean beige—ass for a million dollars, but if you flipped open the dictionary to white privilege, you’d see a picture of Olly and his family. He even dresses like he comes from money. Ayesha and I became friends with him around the same time when we first got to high school and saw this lonely-looking kid sitting in the corner by himself at lunch.

Mrs. Oberst calls on her. “Yes, Miss Chamberlain?”

“Um, never mind,” she says hesitantly. “I forgot my answer.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she goes, but then she locks eyes with me. “I think Gio has an answer, though.”

Shit. What the hell is she doing? I was definitely not raising my hand. I was drawing some random music notes on a piece of paper as an escape from this hellhole, but now Mrs. Oberst is staring at me.

“Giovanni,” she says. Mrs. Oberst calls me by my full government name because my name comes from a book by James Baldwin that she loves. This isn’t a coincidence. My birth mom loved the book, too, according to Pops. “What do you think?”

Honestly, if I’m being real, I’d straight-up just tell her off about my feelings on this book, but I don’t. There’s a place and time for hood me to come out. Right now is not the time, I’m telling myself.

“I’m not reading the book,” I say, and swallow hot spit.

“And why is that, Giovanni? Do you think you’re better than everyone else in this room?”

“No,” I say, looking around. “I just don’t relate to it.” I’m probably sounding like a real dick.

“You sound ridiculous, Giovanni” is her response. And what I really wanna do is let her know that her class is almost as ridiculous as her Party City wig. But I don’t.

She continues her silent strut, waiting for someone else to volunteer. I try to avoid all eye contact, because, like I said, Mrs. Oberst doesn’t play—and she will call us out, if she wants.

I see a white hand go up out the corner of my eye. I look back and it’s Penelope Roe. She’s the head cheerleader and is known to be a real Blue Lives Matter supporter. Her and her boujee parents who bought her a hot pink Mercedes to drive to school.

“Yes, Miss Roe?”

“He’s the lawyer and therefore he’s the hero. He shows the judge that racism is wrong.”

I look back at Ayesha and we both roll our eyes. I know Ayesha wants to fight her. She wants to fight everybody.

Without raising her hand first, Ayesha interjects, “Actually, that white man isn’t the hero. The man is complicit in the oppression of Black people.”

Problematic-Ass Penelope Roe goes all the way quiet. Ayesha and I high-five with our minds.

Ben Davis High School is pretty diverse, like more than half the school is Black or brown, but white folks ’round here still act a fool.

The bell rings, so I don’t have to roll my eyes at another white kid who’s suddenly realizing racism is a thing. I’ve got basketball practice tonight, and I’m looking more forward to it than ever since we’ve got a string of big games coming up.

That’s the kind of distraction I don’t mind: a clear one.

The other thoughts are way too messy.

I make my way to my locker, where Ayesha and Olly meet me, the air smelling like recently lit weed and gym socks. I trade out the books from my backpack and put in the ones I need for my homework tonight. The Paramore poster in my locker makes me smile for a second.

“Can you believe that bitch talking ’bout how that white man was a hero?” Ayesha goes, smacking away at her gum.

“Yeah, I know, right,” I say. “She’s trash.”

“Can’t believe I almost dated her,” Olly says.

“Yeah, I’m glad you didn’t, dude,” I say.

“I would’ve probably stopped being your friend. For real,” Ayesha says.

“Dramatic,” Olly says. And I laugh. He’s kind of right, though. Ayesha is pretty dramatic, but it’s one of my favorite things about her. I wouldn’t change her for the world. We dated when we were freshmen and now we’re all juniors. We broke up because it was weird going from childhood best friends to awkward hand-holding and terrible kisses.

“Screw you,” Ayesha says to Olly. Then she play-punches my arm.

“I’m sorry,” Olly says, still laughing.

Ayesha clears her throat. “Whatever. Are we hanging out tonight or what?”

“We can,” I say.

“Our usual? Kreamy Kones?” Olly asks.

“I’m in,” I say.

“I’ll text you guys after my date.”

“Your date?!” Olly and I practically shout in unison, over all the chatter of the noisy hallway as everyone leaves for whatever they do after school.

“I met someone,” Ayesha says, averting her eyes, like she’s full of all the dirty little secrets and we’re about to get an earful if we pry her enough.

“Who?” I ask, slamming my locker shut and staring at her.

Her curly hair’s so long it’s in her face, but I can still see her look around as if she wants to make sure no one else hears her. She pulls me and Olly to the side a little bit.

“I didn’t tell you all because I knew you’d both make it a big deal.” She pulls out her phone. “I’ve been using MatchUp.”

“MatchUp is for hookups, Ayesha.” I sound like an overprotective brother. I would know because I went through this phase last year where I met up with some random girls every now and then for a quick hookup and even some guys, too, as an experiment to see if I was really into guys the way I started to think I was. Somehow making out with a random guy helped me figure things out, like icing on the cake. But now that I know, MatchUp is over for me. What started as a kind-of experiment cemented my for-sure truth. Dudes are hot and I think I can also see myself being with one.

“That’s what you think, but it’s different with Trevor. He wants more than just sex.”

She flashes us both a picture of him. He doesn’t look bad. His profile photo is of him wearing a suit at somebody’s wedding and he’s got dreads. I’ve always imagined Ayesha ending up with somebody with dreads, so it’s kind of funny.

“He go here, Yesh?” I ask. I call her Yesh sometimes. It’s one of the many nicknames I have for her. She has even more for me.

“He goes to Pike.”

“Oh.” It sounds like I’m sad, but I’m not. Pike’s our rival school. And maybe this slips out because I’m pissed she didn’t tell me. We tell each other everything. She was the first person I told that I was bisexual, in the middle of a McDonald’s parking lot two months ago. The least she could’ve done was tell me about this Trevor guy, right? Or maybe I’m being childish about this.

“He better not be a fuckboy,” Olly goes.

“Says King Fuckboy himself,” Ayesha snaps back. She’s queen of the clapback. And I can never contain my laughter, even in serious moments.

“How long has this been going on? Is it official?” I ask.

She grabs for my hands as I put on my backpack again. “He asked me out last night.” She’s grinning so big I know she’s happy. I haven’t seen her this happy in a minute. If she’s good with him, I’m good with him.

“I’m still gonna have to meet him first, though,” I say.

“Yeah, of course.”

It goes quiet and it’s like we’re the last ones left in the school. Olly puts on his Nike snapback and says, “All right, I guess I’ll see at least one of you tonight. Have fun at practice, Gio.” Something about this last part is sarcastic. He’ll never let go of the fact that he didn’t get to be on the basketball team after he tried out last year. On the bright side, he’s on the school’s intramural flag football team, which I personally think is awesome.

Olly walks away and now it’s just Ayesha and me. The two of us live in the same neighborhood and usually ride home from school together, but not on the days I have practice. She kisses me nice and soft on the cheek and says, “I’ll see ya.”

“See ya,” I say back.

I turn to walk in the other direction, toward the gym. I need to get to the locker room before practice to change into my jersey and basketball shorts. Usually, I’d wear them under my school clothes, but for some reason I forgot today.

I hear a familiar clicking of heels and look up to see Mrs. Oberst approaching me, clipboard in hand, glasses still on the bridge of her nose like they’re glued there or something.

“Giovanni.” She says my name in a single breath and inhales deeply.

I blink. “Yes, Mrs. Oberst?” I’m sounding all proper and shit because my stepmom and my Pops taught me how to act around white people.

“What’s going on with you?” she asks.

I look around like I’m searching for an answer. “What do you mean?”

“You were very out of it during my class today. You also said that you weren’t reading the book I assigned.”

I don’t say anything. I stare at her forehead, so it gives off the appearance that I’m looking her in the eyes.

“You realize your grades depend on successful completion of the book, no?”

“Yeah,” I murmur shyly. “I mean yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve noticed that you haven’t been focused a whole lot lately—you might want to ask yourself why that is before it’s too late. You have a C in my class, but those can quickly turn into Ds and Fs.”

Damn. I got a C? I mean, it’s only February, so I’ve got time to get it up before the semester is over and summer arrives, but damn. The thought of getting my first D or even F has my heart in my throat.

Mrs. Oberst clears whatever is caught in her esophagus and asks something else. “Everything okay at home? I know students who are sometimes out of it around here have some difficult home lives.”

I swallow thickly. Shit. She’s being so nosy.

I think for a moment, not really knowing how to answer her question. I mean, things are okay. Karina is still holding the family together, doing what she does best even though she’s a part-time nurse.

“Things are good,” I say, even though when I say it, it doesn’t feel entirely accurate.

“Any gun fights or shootings in your neighborhood?” Mrs. Oberst asks. She sounds a lot like Mr. Dickey, the school guidance counselor, who’s always checking up on me because he grew up in the hood, too, way back in the day. But, look, just because I live in the “ghetto” doesn’t mean I’m out here holding a Captain America shield everywhere I go. I’m gonna give her the benefit of the doubt and not let the ghetto jump out of me to cuss her out. I’ve done that before. Not to her specifically, but to another teacher I had—Mrs. Winkler, last year in sophomore geometry, for asking if my Pops was in jail. I let her have it.

Mrs. Oberst’s question comes back around. “Nah,” I answer, “I’m good. Everything is good in the Haven.”

“Are you sure? I’m here to help.” She sounds like a character in a book she’d teach us.

“I’m sure, thanks.” I fake a smile.

Between her and Mr. Dickey I get probably every question from the How to Save a Black Kid from the Hood and How to Be the Savior to a Black Kid with Anxiety and Trauma manuals. I mean, they know all I’ve been through, which is part of the problem. They know Desiree, one of my friends from elementary school, died when we were kids. They know my birth mom walked out on the family when I was nine and never came back. And they know that I’ve been going to counseling off and on when I need to. Because it was so hard after she left—and it’s still hard. That anxiety and the nightmares sometimes come back in these huge tidal waves I can’t escape, so consuming I think I’ll drown. But still. I shouldn’t have to talk about any of this when I don’t want to. Besides, today’s been mostly a good day. I want to keep it that way for as long as I possibly can.

“Do you think basketball is a distraction?” she asks out of nowhere.

“Basketball isn’t a distraction. It’s my escape,” I say. ’Cause it’s the truth. Basketball and music are my things.

“Very well.”

“Basketball helps me clear my head when I need to. When my thoughts are so loud, basketball turns them down.” This is so much more than a distraction.

“Okay. If you ever need anything, Giovanni, don’t hesitate to reach out,” Mrs. Oberst says in such a sincere voice that I almost fall for it.

I nod at her and say, “Thanks again.”

“Not a problem.” She smiles widely, showing her teeth, and continues walking past me down the hallway, heels clicking and clacking in the distance, fading into nothing.

, a gang in the neighborhood I live in. He’s also a notorious drug dealer (the one who got me my weed when I wanted it). But people don’t talk about that here on the court because it’s irrelevant. He’s here to shoot and play, because maybe that’s his escape. I’m not going to question that, and I’m not gonna say anything