“I want to swap home ec for shop.”
Mrs. Golden sits back in her chair.
It squeaks.
She frowns.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I want to learn how to make things in shop.”
“But you learn how to make things in home ec.”
“I already know how to cook and sew.”
We look at each other. I breathe
and remember
drip, drip, drip,
respectfully. “So, may I?”
“I don’t know
what you did in California
or what they taught you there
or what your family believes,
but that’s impossible here, Mimi.
Girls don’t take shop.
Really—do you see any boys
wanting to take home ec?”
I know this subject is also closed
for now.
Kind Of
The bell rings after English
and Stacey says, “Daddy finally let me get the Cream album.
You want to come over today and listen?”
“I can’t. Remember?”
“No, it’s different. Mother did an about-face
about . . . all that. She asked me to invite you.”
“What made it different?”
Stacey shrugs. “I think when she met your mother
at the wives’ tea.”
I don’t know what Mama did or said
to change Stacey’s mom’s mind.
I want to say yes—but
I want to go
when I want to go,
not when Stacey’s mom
says I can.
“Today’s not a good day,” I tell Stacey,
which is the truth.
“I have a lot of homework,”
which is kind of a lie.
“Sure?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
I know she knows what I’m thinking
because she’s my best friend
and can read my mind.
“Maybe tomorrow?” she asks.
“Maybe.”
“Mimi, please don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not.”
Which is also kind of a lie.
“Okay, call me tonight,” she says,
and looks kind of sad. I would be lying
if I said that didn’t make me
kind of happy.
Moon Viewing
I’m trying hard not to believe
that kids in science class are ignoring me
while I present my project.
I try to ignore—
Ann Marie jiggling her foot
and picking at her cuticles
Bruce yawning
and stretching his mouth as wide as his arms
David getting out of his seat
and opening the window—
just when I ask
if anyone would like to look through the holes
and see the phases of the moon.
“Everyone, pay attention,” Mrs. Stanton says,
then asks, “May I look?”
I’m trying hard to smile
in front of the class
without breaking apart,
and pretend I don’t see—
while Mrs. Stanton gazes at the moon,
unaware—
that kids are making squint-eyes at me.
The A Group
Only ten science projects can go
into the A group.
They will be judged for first, second, and third prizes
in the Science Groove
by college students who are studying the same topics,
and by Mr. Donovan, the school superintendent,
who invented a spray that makes your hair smell clean.
And guess which project
made it into the A group?
Guess!
Someone wasn’t ignoring me on Tuesday
when I presented my project.
Thank you, Mrs. Stanton,
for the A group
and the A plus!
Best Friends Always
I’m not mad at Stacey anymore,
and I hope she isn’t mad at me
as I dial her number tonight.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and
right away she says, “I’m sorry, too.
Best friends?”
“Always,” I say, feeling lighter
now that my anger has disappeared.
“Do you want to come over on Saturday
and get ready for the dance together?” she asks.
My heart still has a little bruise
where her mom didn’t want me at her house,
so I ask, “Can you come here instead?”
“It’s really okay, Mimi,” she says.
“Please?” I ask.
And when she comes back to the phone
and asks, “What time?”
that bruise heals
a little more.
Dress, Hair, and Makeup
Auntie and I used to watch
Shindig! and Hullabaloo
and sometimes Dick Clark
and dance.
She let me wear her white lipstick
and her go-go boots
as we did the Pony.
Tonight is my first real dance.
School calls it Spring Fling,
but everyone else calls it Spring Thing.
Stacey came home with me after school.
Mama made tempura—because she knows people like tempura—
and meat loaf, in case Stacey didn’t like tempura.
We had rice, and Mama asked if she wanted potatoes.
Stacey smiled and said, “We ate rice in Georgia, too.”
Now we go up to my room. I open the windows
because the warm May air puts me in the mood
for getting ready for my first dance.
Stacey’s dress is made of dotted swiss.
It has a white bodice and a violet skirt,
with a thin, white ribbon and a tiny flower at the waist.
She got it at a store called Bonwit Teller in Boston.
Her hair is in big curlers all around her head,
and when she puts mascara on her eyelashes,
her mouth opens, the way mine does when I look at the moon and stars.
Mama made my dress
from the robin’s-egg blue silk
that Auntie Sachi sent her for a kimono.
But Mama said she’d rather make a dress
she can see on me
than a kimono
she can see on herself
only in a mirror.
She said, “Besides, finding a gofukuya here to make a kimono
is like finding snow in Honolulu.”
“Your mother is so talented,” Stacey says,
running her fingers through a pleat in my dress.
“Does she make all your clothes?”
“Most of them,” I say, feeling guilty
that I wish my dress
had come from Bonwit Teller.
Now Stacey’s doing my makeup.
“Not too much,” Mama had told me yesterday.
“You’re beautiful enough already.”
My skin is too dark to wear Stacey’s liquid foundation,
but she pats blusher on my cheeks,
and smooths Vaseline on my lower lip with her pinkie.
“Go like this,” she says, pressing her lips together.
And when she stands close to me to draw on my ey
elids,
her breath smells like toothpaste and tempura shrimp.
“Now your hair. Let’s make it loose.”
“No—Mama likes it pulled back tight.”
“She won’t mind just for tonight,” Stacey says,
then undoes my braid and combs my hair with her fingers.
She rubs a dab of goop in her hands
and runs them through my hair again, and says,
“Now your curls are making themselves known.”
She clips the sides together at the back of my head.
“What do you think?” she asks
as we stand side by side in the mirror.
I’m afraid to love what I see—
afraid it would be too vain
to think the girl with the blue dress and shiny lips
and hair curling around her shoulders
is pretty, so I say,
“You are so talented.”
We go downstairs
and Papa takes pictures of us,
together and separately.
Mama holds out her wedding pearls
and tells me to turn around.
They are cold on my neck, and I
feel like I’ve just grown up five years.
“The boys won’t have a chance around you girls,” Papa says,
and Stacey and I look at each other and say, “Eww.”
But I know what the boys think of Stacey
and how they’re afraid to talk to her
because she’s so pretty and has that accent
as fragrant as lilacs.
We put on our shoes at the door,
and Papa presses a dime into my palm.
“Just in case you need to call,” he says.
I don’t understand
because he’s picking me up after the dance.
When we drive past Mr. Dell’s house,
I wish Timothy were here
to see me all dressed up for my first dance.
Spring Thing
When we go into the gym,
the band is playing “The Mighty Quinn”
so loud
that we have to shout in each other’s ears.
The drums beat from my soles to my chest,
and I’m so excited
or nervous
that giggles go down my throat,
and I feel that something brand new
is going to happen tonight.
There are streamers along the walls, and the lights are dim,
but everything—
earrings, barrettes, and even buttons
on the boys’ shirts—glitters.
The air smells like roses and Tabu and Canoe
and Right Guard spray.
Girls with ribbons in their hair
are talking to girls with flower earrings
and boys who scratch their necks.
Somewhere beyond that wall of kids,
people must be dancing.
Stacey starts to move her arms and legs,
and I dance with her.
“Hey, you’re good!” she shouts in my ear,
and I smile. It’s because of Auntie Sachi
and Dick Clark.
A few seconds later, a tall boy in eighth grade
taps her on the shoulder.
She twists around and he says something in her ear.
She nods. “Be right back,” she says to me,
and they go through the wall of kids.
The band switches to “Love Is All Around,”
so they must be slow dancing.
I turn around, looking at the girls and boys
talking, hoping someone will see me and smile
and wave me in to their group.
But no one does.
At the refreshment table I get a Tab
and back up to the wall near the girls’ room,
and smile at people. Some smile back,
but they all have something important to do.
I finish my Tab and turn to put the can in the trash,
when someone bumps me,
knocking me against the table,
and moves on.
The kids behind the refreshment table don’t seem to notice
what happened to me,
but they see the tipped-over cans and bottles
and quickly line them up again.
The band is playing “Girl Watcher.” I am not that girl.
I’m like that part of the moon that the crescent curls around—
in shadow,
invisible.
Deep in my pocketbook
I find the dime Papa gave me.
Science Groove
School will be over in two weeks,
but we still have lots to do before then.
Today
we brought our science projects to school
for the Science Groove.
Papa carried my moon box,
and I carried my poster and report
and the flashlight and extra batteries
to the gym,
where many long tables were set up
to hold the displays.
Tonight
the teachers and parents and families
and anyone else
will come to the gym,
look at the projects, and ask questions.
Mrs. Stanton said there isn’t much to do in Hillsborough,
so everyone in town comes to the Science Groove.
Tomorrow
the judges will look at the Group A and B projects
and read our reports
and ask us questions.
Papa said my project is in a good spot,
at the end of the table,
where you can see it from the entrance to the gym.
People are coming by
and looking through the holes at the moon
and asking questions, like
“Why did you do this project?” and
“Do you like the moon?” and
“What nationality are you?”
(But mostly they ask about my project.)
The big difference between Group A and Group B
is that Group A wins the awards.
David, who made the water mill in wood shop,
is next to me. He’s in Group B
but thinks he should be in A,
and has told me many times tonight
in many different ways—like
“How is a box with holes better than a water mill?”
“Your father made that, right?”
“I’d be in Group A if you didn’t move here,” and
“People should stay with their own kind.”
It’s funny
how other people get to decide when I’m invisible
but I can’t make them disappear.
So I turn around and pretend to straighten my poster,
when someone behind me says,
“Well, well. That’s a good-looking box.
Did you make that all by yourself?”
I nod, and turn around
to see Mr. Dell.
My heart thumps at the surprise
of seeing him at school,
until I remember the Science Groove is public.
“Hello,” I say carefully.
“Mm-hmm,” he says with a little nod,
and walks on down the aisle.
No Words
WHO
took the moon out of my moon box?
And
WHY
would anyone do that?
I have no words left.
They’ve drifted away
into the vast, expanding
loneliness
of space.
But I still have lots of tears.
Full Missing Moon
Mr. Donovan and Mrs. Stanton let me stay in the Groove
even though my moon is gone
and I couldn’t show the judge
the best part of my project—the moon and its phases.
He could only look through the holes of the moon box
and imagine how my moon would look
with the flashlight shining on it from different angles.
He could not know how beautiful my moon was
and how hard I worked on it.
The worst part about all this—
worse than having my moon stolen—
is that I’m now in Group B,
and I won’t win first prize.
And David’s water mill
moved into my spot in Group A.
David won’t look at me
as we stand beside our projects,
waiting for the results.
Bad Dreams
You know
those bad dreams
that make you glad
they were only dreams?
I wish
I could wake up
from bad days.
Learning Japanese
Tuesday after the Science Groove,
Karen and Kim sit at a table in the cafeteria
and hang their pocketbooks on the chairs.
I take my tray over to them, and ask,
“Do you still want to learn Japanese?”
“Yes,” they say, nodding so hard the table teeters.
“Teach us some words.”
“Okay, here’s one—baka.”
“Baka,” they repeat. “What’s that mean?”
“Well, it’s hard to translate . . . but it’s a sign
of respect,” I say,
and hold my hand over my mouth like Mama.
This is fun.
“Like, you say it to teachers?”
“That’s right. And your parents.”
“Is that what your mom says to your dad?”
“All the time,” I say,
and pick up my tray to go.
Full Cicada Moon Page 8
