Chapter 11:

Ralph Helps

I don’t know why I love Sunday morning grocery shopping so much. I love the sights and sounds of the store. I love the way people concentrate hard when they’re looking at a piece of fruit and deciding whether to get it. I love the cereal aisle and the different colors and boxes. I love seeing people who come to the store straight from church, all dressed up, especially the older ladies with their big hats. Another thing is that my mom works a lot during the week, and I don’t always get to spend as much time with her as I wish I did. So I appreciate the slowness of moving up and down the aisles together, in no hurry.

On this Sunday, Ralph got to join us for the first time at the store, and he was winning a lot of points with Mom.

“Ralph, I need three pounds of sweet potatoes,” Mom said. Over by the scale, there were a couple of people waiting to measure out the weight of their fruits and vegetables. But when you bring your own robot to the store, there’s no need to wait for the scale. Ralph picked up some potatoes, holding them tightly in his arms. He paused for a moment, then delicately replaced one of the potatoes to the display and picked up a smaller one. Then, satisfied, he beamed at Mom and handed them to her.

HERE ARE THE SWEET POTATOES, MOM. THEY ARE NINETY CENTS PER POUND. I AM DEDUCTING TWO DOLLARS AND SEVENTY CENTS FROM OUR GROCERY BUDGET. REMAINING BUDGET IS FORTY DOLLARS AND EIGHT CENTS.

“Thank you, Ralph!” said Mom, tying the potatoes into a bag and putting them in the shopping cart. Amir, sitting in the child seat, kicked his legs happily.

“Swee-tatoes!” he sang out. Amir loved mashed sweet potatoes. You’d think they were candy, the way he attacked them when you put them in front of him. Ralph wiggled his fingers at him and pushed the cart along, following behind Mom as she headed toward the dairy section. She looked carefree and relaxed.

“It’s so nice not to have to push that heavy cart!” she said over her shoulder. “Ralph, what’s next on the list?”

ITEMS REQUIRED FROM THE DAIRY SECTION ARE YOGURT, TWO PERCENT MILK, AND STRING CHEESE.

“Got it,” said Mom. She took a peek at her watch. “At this rate, we’re going to get done so quickly, Maya. We’ll have plenty of time today to work on your science fair project. Did you have any ideas about what you wanna do?”

“Mmm.” I trotted along to catch up with Mom, walking beside her as Amir and Ralph trailed behind us. As we moved through the store, some people stopped and stared at our family, but Ralph didn’t seem to notice. He was playing peek-a-boo with Amir, his lighted eyes flashing and blinking as Amir giggled and covered and uncovered his face.

“I was thinking . . . something related to feelings and the brain. Like, how we process our emotions.”

Mom tilted her head to the side. “That sounds interesting,” she said. “How did you come to that idea?”

When she asked that question, my mind leaped back to a moment from my school day on Friday. During quiet reading time, I had grabbed a book about Katherine Johnson and another book about Daniel Hale Williams and stacked them neatly on the corner of my desk, thinking I would use one of them for my next book report. In the meantime, I opened a book about Bessie Coleman and started reading the introduction. I read lots of different kinds of books, but lately I have been enjoying a lot of nonfiction and biographies.

I was totally sucked into Bessie’s story. Just when she was about to travel to Paris to get her pilot’s license, a shadow suddenly crossed my desk. I looked up to see Zoe there.

“Hi, Patricia,” she hissed, making the soft sh sound in the name last for a few extra seconds. “I really wanted to read this book.” She picked up the Katherine Johnson book from the top of my stack, smirked, and started to walk away.

I gasped. “But that’s my—”

“Patricia! Zoe! Are you not aware that this is quiet reading time?” Ms. Rodríguez called out from the back of the room, where she was having a one-on-one meeting with someone.

“Sorry, Ms. Rodríguez,” said Zoe. “Just sharpening my pencil.” She brandished the pencil in the air and walked away toward the sharpener, my book tucked under her arm.

As I watched her go, my heart was beating really fast. I wanted to do something—to tell on her, to jump up and snatch my book back, to go to her desk and take one of her books. Something. But I had that weird feeling again of time slowing down. Why are my feelings like this? I wondered. Why do I let Zoe have such an effect on me?

Now, back in the grocery store, I struggled to answer Mom’s question.

“I guess sometimes . . . I have . . . a lot of confusing feelings,” I said. “Especially in school. I feel sad, or lonely, or angry at somebody. And I wish I could control them.”

Mom stopped what she was doing immediately and turned to face me. She leaned down and tilted my chin up so she could look right into my face.

“Oh, my girl.” She sighed. “Everyone wishes that sometimes. Our feelings are part of what makes us human, but they also make being human so very complicated. And sometimes our feelings disagree with each other! You can be happy and sad and mad at the same time.” I nodded. Mom kissed me on the cheek and turned back to the string cheese she had been looking at. “When you’re at home, you can always talk to me about your feelings. But at school, do you ever share these feelings with MJ or Jada? Sometimes talking to our friends about things can make us feel better.”

I wrinkled my face up. “I used to. But this year since we’ve been in different classes, it’s hard to find the time. And I worry that they are having a whole life without me.”

Mom nodded sympathetically. “That can happen with friends, Maya. And that’s normal. As you get older, you and MJ and Jada might have different experiences and grow into different interests. And that’s okay. That is part of how we learn how to be who we are. What matters is that you care about each other.”

Deep down, I knew Mom was right. But what she was talking about also felt really scary. Why did things have to change and be different? Why couldn’t they stay the same forever?

Mom paused in front of the shelf full of imperfect foods, slightly bent boxes, and dented cans. She inspected it carefully before grabbing two cans of black beans and handing them to me. “Didn’t you get some new kids in your class this year? Are any of them nice?”

I thought of Elijah and the gentle tone of voice he used when he handed me my book. The other day when I got up to get a tissue from the front of the room, I had noticed him drawing volcanoes in a notebook. They looked pretty good, too. Elijah was interesting, that much was certain. But if I tried to start a conversation with him, would he get my jokes? Would he have seen Star Wars? Would he think anything of the fact that I don’t have my own room, or that our apartment is small? I looked up at Mom, wrinkling my nose.

“Yeah, there are some new kids,” I said at last. “But starting from scratch just seems so . . . hard.”

“That’s part of life, Maya. And—oh my gosh. Amir! Amir Charles Robinson!” Mom was flipping out.

I turned to see Ralph and Amir and gasped.

“Raf! Swee-tatoes!” Amir was clapping his hands and laughing.

HERE IS A SWEET POTATO, AMIR.

Ralph obediently handed him a sweet potato. Which would have been fine if it clearly wasn’t the thirtieth one he had given him. Amir was sitting in a small pile of sweet potatoes, his head poking out so that he looked like a little brown sweet potato himself.

Mom shook her head. “Amir! I can’t turn my back on you for one second. Maya, your brother is turning out to be quite the smarty. He must get it from you.”

I started laughing so hard that my stomach hurt and I could barely talk. “Ralph,” I wheezed, “put back the sweet potatoes except for three pounds. We only need three pounds, okay?”

“Ralph, while you’re over there, get a head of lettuce,” Mom added, picking bits of sweet potato strings out of Amir’s hair.

OKAY!

Ralph whizzed away, his arms full. Amir looked very proud of himself.

“Raf help me!” he said. “Raf help Amir.”

I went over to the produce area to supervise Ralph as he neatly returned the sweet potatoes. The way he put them back, they looked more nice and orderly than any of the other fruits and vegetables. A grocery manager in a black apron stood nearby, observing. “That’s some friend you got there,” he said, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. “He’s real good at that. Might have to offer him a job!”

I smiled. “Thanks,” I said. “He likes to be helpful.”

The man’s friendly expression suddenly turned into a frown. “But what’s he doing? I hope you plan on buying that, young lady.” I turned around.

Ralph had taken off his bucket head and was holding it in one hand. With the other hand, he was carefully balancing some bright green lettuce on top of his body.

MAYA, I PUT BACK THE SWEET POTATOES. AND I GOT A HEAD OF LETTUCE.

I groaned. I guess Mom’s right. Each of us is learning to be who we are—even those of us who are robots.