“Oh, they were so nice. Couldn’t play worth nothing, but nice.” Mama glances at Ezra, her face softening. “How was Shabbat, Ezra?”

His skinny shoulders lift and fall, the shrug telling me all I need to know. His mop of dark, springy curls is helmeted from the little cap he probably took off a few minutes ago. The first time I saw Ezra wearing his yarmulke, I called it a Jewish Kangol.

Mrs. Stern didn’t think that was funny.

“It’s not dark out yet, Mama.” I elbow Ezra. “Can we go ride our bikes for a little while?”

Mama and Mrs. Stern exchange a quick look and then nod.

“You can play twenty minutes, Tru,” Mama says firmly. “Soon as that streetlight comes on, bring your narrow hips home.”

I grab Ezra’s hand and we head toward the living room. “Yes, m-m-ma’am.”

I hate it when I stutter.

“Did I tell you Mrs. Downy called last week?” Mama asks, her voice lowered, but reaching us in the foyer as we’re about to leave the house.

Mrs. Downy? My teacher?

I put my hand on Ezra’s arm, stopping him so we can eavesdrop.

“No, what did she want?” Mrs. Stern asks.

“She wanted to talk about putting Tru in a remedial class.”

“What? Because she stutters? Kimba’s smart as a whip.”

“I know.” Outrage peppers Mama’s voice. “She’s having a hard year because a few of the kids started teasing her, but that’s all it is.”

Ezra and I stare at each other. He seems as focused on the conversation in the dining room as I am.

“I got to that school so fast,” Mama says. “Drove over on my planning period and told her if she ever tried that again, she’d have to deal with me.”

“Good for you, Janetta,” Mrs. Stern says.

Shame fills my throat, makes me feel like I’m choking. I focus on the high shine of Mama’s hardwood floor.

“Mrs. Downy’s stupid,” Ezra says, his first words since he came into the house.

I make myself look up and Ezra doesn’t say anything else, but tips his head toward the door.

“You ready?” he asks.

I think every morning when Ezra wakes up, God gives him a tiny jar of words. He only gets so many, maybe a quarter of what the rest of us do. And he’s so scared he’ll run out, he uses as few of them as possible. Half his sentences are one word or a grunt. Weekends, he talks so little, I bet at the end of the day, he has leftovers.

Mama and Mrs. Stern have moved on, now talking about a sale at Dillard’s. I nod and follow Ezra out the door. Outside, I grab my bike and Ezra runs over to his house to grab his. We meet in the middle of the street that separates our homes.