You missed the auction in math. Odie (Kris) & I put our money together. We had $6,990.00 in pretend classroom money. We spent $6,600.00 of it. Even though the dollars weren’t real, it bought us a necklace, doll magnets, & dial-a-name . . .
On the following pages, she continued . . .
We saw WarGames on the VCR at school. We also saw Attack of the Killer Tomatoes which was the stupidest movie I ever saw.
There was an eclipse too. Did Japan have one? If you didn’t see it, tough turkey! There won’t be another one until 2017. You and I will be 44! . . . It was freakish! We were at recess. It got dark and even the temperature dropped.
Please hurry back. I need you!!! I’m thinking of you all the time!
~Garfield
P.S. In your next letter, tell me when this letter gets to your home.
P.P.S. I had to ask your family for your address.
F/F (which means friends forever)
W.B.S. (Wright) (Back) (Soon)
Annette was obsessed with Garfield—he was an orange tabby cartoon character, and she had orange hair so it was almost like they were twins. Nermal was a cute gray kitten. I was a lot shorter than Annette so I assumed that was why she called me “Nermal” in her letter, even though she never called me that before. Heck, she could call me anything she wanted as long as she kept sending letters. Even though there were points where Annette gloated a little bit about all the fun I was missing, she was my first friend to write. And no, I didn’t get to see the eclipse in Japan. I guess that was “tough turkey” for me.
No letter from Kris, yet. I wondered why. Maybe she didn’t have my address in Japan. Annette mentioned she had to ask my family for it.
Or maybe it was because I hadn’t written to her yet?
Well, that was silly of me!
I tapped my pencil on the dining table. What to write . . . what to write . . . I had a great idea! I would write Annette about one thing, and Kris about another. That way they would have to get together to compare notes, and it would almost be like I was there too.
Dear Annette Garfield,
You know how you always threatened to send me (Nermal) to Timbuktu? Well, you made a mistake, you accidentally sent me to Japan (ha ha). How are you? I’m fine, actually no, not really, I still can’t believe I’m over here. I’ve already had two weeks of school and Thank You so much for sending a letter. You’re the first one! If you see Kris, please tell her I’M WAITING!
We don’t do anything fun at Japanese school like the auction, or watch any movies, even bad ones like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. There wasn’t an eclipse here either! I can’t believe I missed it AND I’ll have to wait until I’m 44 to see the next one. Oh my God, so old. Aaaaargh! That totally sucks.
You know your grandma? My grandma is SO different from yours. So your grandma always smiles and says, “Good job!” and “You’re so amazing!” all the time, right? And you know how she always hugs you and even hugs me? Well, if my grandma hugged me and told me I was amazing, I’d run for my life because that would mean she’d been possessed by aliens. You know when you said you thought it was weird how my family doesn’t hug each other? Well, it’s not because we’re weird. It’s just because my parents are Japanese. My grandma doesn’t hug either. Just so you know, the Japanese are not huggy people. They bow instead.
My grandma sometimes even looks like an alien. Every night before bed, she coils up locks of her hair and snaps them down in hair clips so her entire head is covered in silver, and then she wears a nightcap over that before she goes to sleep. (I know, I have to share a room with my grandma!) And you would never believe what she does for her nightly skincare routine—she rubs her face all over with fruit and vegetable scraps. Yeah, I know—weird! Like lettuce, cucumber peels . . . last night she rubbed watermelon rind all over her neck and used half a lemon to polish her elbows like a cue stick. She says it keeps her skin looking young, something about “age spots.” I know it sounds really strange, but she was really proud of the fact she didn’t have any. I’m not even sure what an “age spot” is, but I’m guessing it’s something like freckles. Not that freckles are bad! I love your freckles. I wish I had freckles. But if you want to get rid of them, I guess you could try my grandma’s technique. Maybe I will, too, so I’m not old and wrinkly by the time I’m 44 and the next eclipse rolls around (ha ha). Or maybe not (ha!).
By the way, looking at the date on your letter, it looks like it took only 4 days for it to get here. I’m writing today and sending my letter back on Monday. Tomorrow is Sunday, but the post office is closed. BOO! If we write to each other right when we get a letter, we’ll only have to wait 8–10 days between when we send a letter and when we get the other person’s reply. PLEEEEEEEZE keep on writing me! I miss you too. SO MUCH!
F/F
W.B.S.
Sincerely,
Nermal
My letter wasn’t sloppy, so I didn’t include “Sorry So Sloppy.” Annette wouldn’t mind.
Now onto Kris’s letter. Kris and I both loved food . . . and she had quite the sense of humor, so I knew exactly what kind of details I’d include for her.
Hey Kris,
WHY HAVEN’T YOU WRITTEN TO ME YET??? Have you been kidnapped? Have you broken both arms? Have you forgotten who I am? I’m Waka, by the way, and if you have written and I’m about to receive your letter in a day or two, never mind what I just said. But if you haven’t written to me yet, WRITE TO ME, PLEEEEEZE.
How is everything? How is Kansas? How are your stupid brothers? I know some people don’t like it when other people call their brothers stupid, but I know you’re not one of those people. I hope your summer vacation with your stupid brothers is going better than my stupid summer non-vacation/summer school in Japan!
OK, OK, it’s not all bad. I was really nervous about school here, but it hasn’t been as awful as I thought it would be. Not yet, anyway (ha ha). For one, we get a lot of recesses. They’re not at set times during the day, basically, it seems like whenever we’re done with class stuff, the teacher says, “Go play!” and we get to run outside for 15–20 minutes. So sometimes we get 3 recesses a day! Usually just two, though. I like to swing upside down on the gymnastics bar and have someone spot me as I let go and try to land on my feet, just like we used to! Sometimes I play tag. Being the new kid isn’t as awful as I thought it would be. The girls are pretty nice. One girl, Midori, is someone I was friends with last time I was here, and I walk to and from school with Reiko, a girl who lives just a few houses away from me (like Annette, I guess). The boys here are turds, though, just like at home! But guess what, you won’t believe this, but on the first day of school one boy was mean to me, but then the teacher SMACKED him on the head! Not really hard, but enough that he stopped! Could you imagine if Mrs. Davenport hauled out and smacked people around? I bet she wanted to sometimes, ha ha. That being said, my teacher is actually pretty nice. . . .
Lunch is also really good here. But it’s not in a cafeteria like our school. Before lunch, a group of students leave to grab the classroom’s food from the school kitchen. Then these students put on white smocks and caps like they’re the lunch ladies (only there are boys in the mix too). They set up a food station in the back of the classroom while the rest of us wipe down our own desks and line up with our trays to get our lunch: today it was breaded and fried pork cutlet over shredded green cabbage and steamed rice. Really yummy! I still miss chili on Thursdays with canned peaches and cinnamon rolls, but Japanese school lunches are actually pretty good.
A few things are really different here. First, I’m TALL here. That means you would be too. We’d be giants together! I mean, there are a few girls who are taller than me, but not many. I’m even taller than a lot of the boys. It’s a weird feeling not to have to look up to people to talk.
Second, WE have to clean the schools. Like, the STUDENTS have to, not the janitors. You know how Kevin B. would always stick his gum under his desk? Well, if he were in Japan, HE’D have to clean it. T
his past Tuesday, we didn’t have any classes and literally ALL the students cleaned EVERYTHING. We were on our hands and knees scrubbing the floor—we didn’t even get to use mops! You know, I didn’t mind so much, though. If I had to choose between studying my Japanese or hard labor, I’d choose hard labor, hands down, 100%. Which leads me to . . .
Last, but not least, I’m a total flunkie here. Like, really NOT SMART. You know how I liked Social Studies and English in Mrs. Davenport’s class? Well, over here, I really don’t like them at all! In Social Studies we’re studying Japanese history instead of US history and it sounds pretty much like this to me:
“Hundreds of years ago, this person-who-you-never-heard-of battled with another-person-who-you-never-heard-of. He was the head of a group of people-you-never-heard-of. The site of this battle was at a place-you-never-heard-of, and it resulted in a change in this law-you-didn’t-know-was-a-law, to this new law-you-don’t-understand-the-importance-of.”
I’m never complaining about US history again. Two hundred-ish years is nothing compared to the 1,600 years of Japanese history I’m lost in now!
Oh man, and English class—I guess it’s Japanese class here—don’t even get me started. I can barely read anything! Not only am I going to school during the summers, this week my teacher started tutoring me during his smoking breaks. So remember what I said about lots of recesses? I think I’m going to have a few less starting from now on. I guess I should be thankful he’s willing to spend extra time helping me. I wish he wouldn’t smoke, though. Not only will it kill him eventually, but it makes my eyes water. At least he blows the smoke away from me.
Oh, and get this, you won’t believe this. So for P.E. here, we have to change into uniforms (like we’ll have to do in 7th grade P.E., you know?). But the P.E. uniforms are kinda weird—white polo shirt and navy-blue shorts. Although they aren’t really shorts—they’re more like a poofy pair of polyester underpants with elastic in the legs. They feel kind of like what a diaper feels like, I think (because I haven’t worn any diapers recently, ha ha). But anyway, we change in our classroom. By “we” I mean the boys AND girls, TOGETHER. At the same time. I was kinda freaked out by this, but it wasn’t like my classmates were all looking around trying to stare at each other’s secret parts, know what I mean? But could you IMAGINE having to change clothes in the same classroom as all the guys in Kansas? That would be NUTS, right? (Did you see what I did there? Nuts? Because guys, you know have . . . hahahahahahaha.)
Sorry. As you can see, I’m going crazy here, so PLEEEEEZE WRITE TO ME!
F/F
W.B.S.
Writing these letters wasn’t quite like spending time with Annette and Kris, but for a minute here and a minute there, it was pretty darn close.
Ten
“Aaaa . . . Aaaiiii . . . AAAAIIIIEEE!”
At first, I thought it was the alarm I set so I could get up in time for Sunday Mass.
“AAAAAIIIIIEEE!”
But then I realized it was Obaasama screaming.
In the pitch black, I fumbled for the light, but couldn’t find it.
I sat up and shook my grandmother. “Obaasama, what is it? Obaasama . . . ?”
“Aaaiii . . . aaaa . . .” The screaming ebbed into whimpers.
What could it be? I wondered. What could have terrified Obaasama so much?
I waited, sweating. Was she even breathing anymore? I put my fingers on her pulse like I saw doctors do in TV shows. When she spoke, I almost jumped out of my skin.
“I had a nightmare,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice, clear and calm.
“ . . . What happened?” I asked.
A deep breath and then, “Skeletons were chasing me . . . and then a wolf jumped out and chomped on my heart.”
Yikes, I thought. Where did THAT come from?
I waited for her to say something else but her gentle snores filled the dark instead. I couldn’t sleep now, though, as I thought about someone as old as Obaasama having nightmares. I thought nightmares were just for kids like me. Back home, the slumbering quiet of the house scared me when I woke up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. I was scared of robbers breaking into our house, of a fire burning everything down. In addition to skeletons and wolves, was Obaasama scared of these things too? If I were alone in this dark, old house I think I would be. I know I’d be.
In the morning, I thought about asking my grandmother about her nightmare, but then I worried that might annoy her. After all, I’d be really annoyed if my cousins brought up my bed-wetting incident to me. Obaasama acted like her bad dream never happened as she rubbed and massaged her feet. “Ooooh, my feet get so cold sometimes. . . .”
I remembered then, overhearing conversations between my parents about my grandmother’s heart. I wasn’t sure whether she had a heart attack before or if there was just a scare, but apparently my grandmother had a “bad heart.” When my aunt and uncle dropped me off here, Obaasama had casually mentioned when her feet became cold she worried she would have an “episode” . . . I think. I wish I had listened more closely.
“Aunt Kyoko will be here soon,” Obaasama reminded me. “You have to get ready for Mass.”
Yay, Mass! Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was a big fan of Catholic Mass. In fact, Sunday mornings were stressful growing up. Would we . . . or wouldn’t we? I liked to sleep in on Sundays (not Saturdays, because of the cartoons that started at 7:00 a.m.). Some wonderful Sundays, my parents decided we couldn’t make it to Mass for reasons that never were clear to me. When this happened, I rejoiced in the quiet of my room: Rejoice, Rejoice, no Mass for me today. . . .
Other Sundays, as the clock ticked toward nine, I thought I was safe because there was no way any parent in their right mind could expect four children to be church-ready in less than ten minutes. But then my father shattered this illusion with a booming “Time for church!” I’d groan as I slicked down my crazy, messy hair and slipped on a dress. Then, my mom would freak out because it was wrinkled, and so I’d have to find another dress or iron the one I had on, which would make us late. As luck would have it, we always walked in during a really quiet part of Mass so everyone turned and stared as we searched for empty seats, and I’d sit down in those hard, wooden pews thinking how Mass was a surefire way to ruin a perfectly good Sunday.
But in Japan, Mass meant Aunt Kyoko, Uncle Bushy-Bushy-Black-Hair, and my cousins—the beautiful Mina, and her brothers, Takumi and Ryuu—would whisk me away for the day! I couldn’t wait. As I looked for my best skirt and blouse, I came across a pair of red socks my mom made me bring. I didn’t like these socks because they were so thick that they made my feet slimy with sweat. But maybe . . . I looked toward Obaasama as she unleashed her coiled hair from their silver clips and styled her hair quickly into her tidy updo. Would she want them? I never liked receiving socks as a gift, so maybe she wouldn’t either. Before I could ask, Obaasama was ready for the day and out of the bedroom before I even found my clothes.
After I got dressed, I tiptoed into the living room where Obaasama was praying. Every morning, usually before I woke up, Obaasama prayed the rosary at her altar in the living room. I’d never prayed the whole rosary. During confession once, the priest told me I had to pray five Hail Marys after I told him my sin of being mean to my brothers. But the whole rosary? What could Obaasama have done that she needed to pray the whole rosary every day?
“Waka-chan, are you ready?” asked Aunt Kyoko when she arrived. I was so excited to go that I was already in my shoes and three steps out the door when she asked.
“Do you have your textbook? I can help you with your reading later,” my aunt offered.
Inwardly, I groaned. I didn’t want to think about school on the one day of the week I didn’t have to go. But I slipped off my shoes, dashed back inside, and grabbed the textbook anyway.
Even though the church was only a few train stops away, Obaasama didn’t come with us. I wondered why, but . . . I didn’t mind. My aunt and uncle were free an
d easy with their smiles, and Mina, Takumi, and Ryuu reminded me of my own siblings. I didn’t think this was possible, but I missed them too.
The church was older than the one I went to in Kansas, and it was filled with a smoky perfume. I tried to sing along with the hymns, but when I came to words I couldn’t read, I just mumble-sang, “la, la, la . . .” I could sit through feeling awkward and lost, though, because Aunt Kyoko told us we’d get pizza afterward, and that preoccupied most of my thoughts.
Once Mass ended, we all relaxed. No need to be so formal at Shakey’s Pizza! After we ordered, my aunt opened her purse and pulled out the Japanese textbook I’d handed her when they came to pick me up.
“What lesson are you on, Waka?” she asked. I pointed to the page, and she filled in the furigana next to all the kanji I didn’t know. Furigana is like the phonetic pronunciation of a word written next to the kanji to help people who couldn’t read well . . . like me.
“How about this one?” my aunt asked. I couldn’t read it. My aunt filled it in. “And this one?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no need to apologize,” my aunt said. Aunt Kyoko wrote furigana next to almost all the kanji, in a careful light pencil so I could erase them once I learned the characters. I loved her so much.
My uncle loosened his tie, and Mina and her brothers joked around with each other and me. It was so much fun to be around them I forgot to be embarrassed over how little I could read.
“What’s it like living with Obaasama?” asked my little cousin Ryuu. Everyone at the table got quiet. It made me feel weird. I mean, I hadn’t wanted to live with Obaasama either, but she wasn’t actually a dragon or anything. She was . . . lonely.
I startled at the thought. Why was that the first word that popped into my head? Was she lonely? She certainly didn’t act lonely. It wasn’t like she waited around for me to come home every day, or talked to me a ton when we were together. I guess I didn’t talk to her a ton either. Sometimes it took me a little while to warm up. Maybe she was the same way.
While I Was Away Page 9
