I spent the next day at school silently worried someone would ask me about my freak-out in Mr. Peterson’s class, but no one ever did. Not even Nelson, though it turned out he was saving his insults for Junior Mathletes.
We had our first practice after school in Mr. Peterson’s room. As soon as I walked in, I was immediately at ease. Mathletes is my favorite thing on the planet. I get to flex my math skills and win things, all without saying a word. Well, sometimes I have to read our answers aloud, but those are just numbers, and I’m almost always correct. Mostly, it’s writing down your work and hitting a buzzer, like on Jeopardy, and that’s just enough interaction for me.
The whole team is expected to have a working knowledge of all the testing sections during a competition, but we all have our preferences. Ironically, mine are word problems. Together, the seven of us function sort of like one of those sitcom families. We bicker (a lot) but when push comes to shove, we actually make a pretty good team. When Nelson isn’t oozing everywhere, that is.
“I think I should be team captain,” he announced over cookies and lemonade. He was chewing with his mouth open, arms tucked behind his head and feet up on his desk like some kind of charmless Calvin Klein model. “It just makes sense.”
“How does that make sense, exactly?” Mariam Khan rolled her eyes as she brushed hot pink crumbs off her burgundy hijab.
“Yeah, technically, Chris and I have seniority,” John-Paul Cregg said, cocking his head toward his twin brother. “Eighth graders, yo.”
“We can’t have co-captains.” Poppy Liu looked up from her sketchbook, frowning. Her shiny black bangs flopped into her brown eyes. “The whole point of having a captain is that there’s only one.”
“Exactly, and it should be me,” Nelson said.
“Support your thesis,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. The rest of the team nodded. Nelson blinked for a moment.
“Well,” he stammered, “I’m—I’m obviously the most handsome, for starters.”
Everyone groaned.
“You’re so full of it,” Poppy said.
“I think you like it.”
“Gag me.”
“Anyone else have any nominations?” Konrad Kozlowski asked.
“Bearing in mind that co-captains are not an option,” Poppy added.
“Says who?”
“Says logic, J.P.”
“What are you, a Vulcan now? What’s the prime directive, Poppy?”
“You realize in using that insult, you’re outing yourself as a Trekkie, right?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“What about Martin?”
The din of conversation was cut abruptly short. Everyone turned to look at Christopher-Jack Cregg, who had been totally quiet up to that point. Although Chris and J.P. have the same face—long and spotted with freckles and dark moles—and are both super popular, Chris was always distinguishable in the pair as more of an introvert. Now, his brother stared at him in astonishment.
“Dude,” he hissed at Chris, “we were actually getting somewhere. Martin?”
“Yeah,” Chris said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He totally saved us at qualifiers last year. After you froze in the third round”—he pointed to Nelson, who turned pale—“Martin got us back in the game during sudden death.”
“That was pretty cool,” Mariam said, turning her heavily lined eyes on me approvingly.
“Totally cool,” Chris confirmed.
“He’s a seventh grader!” Nelson snarled.
“So are you!”
“But—but—that’s not the point.”
“You brought it up!”
“Guys,” I interrupted, “this is really nice and all, but what if I don’t want to be captain?”
“Why not?” Mariam asked.
“You’re definitely smart enough,” Konrad said. He would know; he’s in Mensa and goes to all kinds of summer camps for genius kids. He’s also the kind of pale that’s almost translucent, partially because he is very, very Polish and partially because he has zero interest in any outdoor activities. I’m surprised he doesn’t want to be captain himself, to be honest, but I bet he’s too busy with all the tutoring he does on the side. He’s probably going to run the world one day, or become a super villain. Either way, bright future.
“And we know you can lead drills and stuff,” Mariam said. “You filled in for Angelica at our practices last year after she moved away.”
“I know,” I said, “but being captain means giving a speech if we win.”
“So?” Chris asked.
“So . . . I don’t do so well with public speaking.”
“I don’t believe you,” Poppy said imperiously. “You always do fine on the podium.”
“That’s answering math questions, though,” I explained. “I know those answers. And I’m not addressing a crowd of people, I’m addressing a math problem.”
“So just write the speech down,” J.P. suggested.
“Beginning to come around to the idea, huh?” Mariam flashed a coy smile at him.
“Quit flirting,” Nelson said, and Mariam turned the color of her hijab. “If McLean has stage fright, he should be ineligible.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I just . . . being team captain is a big job. I want to make sure I can do it well.” Actually, being captain was all I had ever wanted for my junior high career, but being actually offered the job—as a seventh grader!—had suddenly turned my insides to Jell-O.
“I’m sure you will, Martin,” Mr. Peterson said as he came sailing into the room with a freshly copied stack of schedules in his hands. “I see you’ve all selected a captain. Good choice. Let’s get started.”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say (big surprise) but inside, I was beaming. As nervous as it made me, being voted captain of Junior Mathletes was a huge honor, and taking it on filled me with pride. I practically floated through Mr. Peterson’s overview of the calendar, completely absorbed in visions of the team and me accepting our trophies at Regionals, confetti streaming from the ceiling as we smile and wave to the adoring crowd.
Of course, in reality, Regionals is held at the Baker’s Lake Academy auditorium, which always smells faintly of burnt rubber, and the audience there tends to be pretty mild-mannered. But it’s still a great fantasy, even if it would mean facing a big crowd. I could be remembered forever as one of the greatest captains in the history of our team. I could even go on to a second term! Victory was so close, I could taste it.
It tasted suspiciously like grocery store brand sugar cookies, actually.
3
When I got home from Mathletes practice the next Monday, an unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway. I hopped off my bike to roll it into the garage, and then I saw the plates on the car: Florida. That could only mean one thing.
“Tío Billy!” I cried as I threw open the door. I let my backpack slump to the floor and went flying into the living room.
“Hey, león, you gonna come and give your favorite tío a firm handshake?” My uncle Billy stood up from the couch with a big grin. Tall, tan, and slender, Tío Billy was the most fashionable person I knew. He was always wearing the latest trend, topped off with his signature slim, gray leather jacket. Between his outfits, his shiny, dark curls, and his dimpled Tom Cruise chin, he was definitely the most handsome member of our family.
“How do you know you’re my favorite tío?” I teased. Tío Billy stuck out his hand, and we did our secret handshake. We painstakingly developed it when I was seven. It’s a slide and a wiggle, with a fist bump and a nod.
“Ay, very funny! You know, you’re my only sobrino, so it’s a good thing you’re my favorite!” he said.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. Tío Billy lives in Florida with his husband. Uncle Isaiah is from Louisiana by way of Kenya, so he has the coolest accent. We don’t see my uncles very often, because they’re so busy running their theater group, but I always love it when we do.
/> Before Tío Billy could answer, Mom poked her head out of the kitchen.
“Hey, you two, dinner’s ready!” She had her hair tied back with a wide, colorful bandana in shades of red and orange. She wiped her hands on her apron, and it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember the last time she cooked a homemade meal.
Tío Billy and I headed into the kitchen, where Mom had laid out all my favorites: ropa vieja, arroz con frijoles, and maduros, sweet fried plantains. I even spied a tres leches cake sitting out on the counter in anticipation of dessert.
“Wow,” I said, marveling at the full table. “Am I dying?”
“Oh, mijo,” Mom said, half scolding. “I need a special occasion to cook for you now? Siéntate, the food is getting cold!”
“Better listen, león,” Tío Billy whispered in my ear, loud enough for Mom to overhear. “My big sister wields a mean wooden spoon when she’s mad.” I giggled. Tío Billy has called me león—lion—since I was a baby because, as he tells it, all my wailing sounded like a little lion cub learning to roar. Mom said grace in Spanish, which she only ever does on the holidays, then we tucked into the food. I loaded up my plate with fried plantains, which are my absolute favorite, and a big heap of ropa vieja.
“So, seventh grade, huh?” Tío Billy asked, dishing out some rice. “How’s the first week been?”
“Pretty good,” I said around a mouthful of shredded beef. Then I realized I never told Mom about my big captain-of-the-Mathletes news. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell her, it’s just that I didn’t really have the chance. She was so wrapped up in classes starting again at the university that I was lucky if I saw her before I went to bed.
I opened up my mouth to tell them both, but Mom cleared her throat before I could.
“So, Martín,” she began, “you’re probably wondering why your tío Billy is here.”
I swallowed a gulp of juice. Why was Mom using her Serious Business voice?
“I mean, I guess,” I hedged. It was a little weird, but then, Tío Billy had always been the spontaneous type.
“I thought it might be good for him to stay with us for a bit,” she said.
“Why? Did something happen?”
“No,” Mom replied, shooting a weird look at Tío Billy. “Not exactly. For one thing, Tío Billy is on his way up to Chicago.”
“How come?”
“Your Uncle Isaiah got a job there,” Tío Billy said in his rumbly, good-natured voice. “He’s going to be the artistic director of a big-deal children’s theater company.”
“Wow!” I said. “Tell him congrats for me.”
“We’re in the process of moving up there, but he went before me,” Tío Billy continued. “You know, to get the apartment settled. He knows I don’t carry boxes!” He smiled, and Mom snorted out a little laugh.
“You? No way. You’d always just sit around como una reina while the rest of us packed up!”
I giggled, and so did Tío Billy.
“Anyway,” he said pointedly, brushing Mom off with a little wave of his fingers. “I figured I’d visit you two troublemakers and crash with you for a bit while Uncle Isaiah sets up our new pad.”
Mom smiled, but her lips were pressed together hard, so I knew there was something more.
“I also thought . . .” Mom’s eyes met mine, and for a second, she looked sad. “I thought maybe it might be good for you to have some male influence.”
“Male influence?”
“Somebody to look up to,” she explained. “Somebody to, I don’t know, confide in. About guy stuff.”
“Guy stuff?” I asked. I felt as if my brain had gone offline; I could only repeat the ends of her sentences. Mom never cared much about “guy stuff” before. Neither had I, if I’m being honest.
“You know, school and Mathletes, and any questions you might have about—”
Oh, no. “Don’t say it!” I winced, but Mom was going full steam ahead.
“—puberty, and crushes, and all that,” she said. “You know, cosas de hombres.”
I groaned. Mom had always been insecure about raising me without a dad. How could I be sure Tío Billy was actually on his way to Chicago? Mom could have dragged him up here just to be a “male influence” on me. Or what if this was just a new, inventive excuse for her to not be around?
“Mom, I swear, I don’t have any questions,” I said, putting down my knife and fork. “I’m fine. Really!”
“You need to talk about your feelings, mijo! I don’t like this, all this panicking at school and bottling yourself up,” she exclaimed. “You’re almost a teenager now, and it must feel like there are things I wouldn’t understand, right? So, that’s what Tío Billy is here for!” Mom gestured to him. “If you ever feel like you can’t talk to me—even though you absolutely can, baby—you can talk to him!”
“I don’t want to talk at all,” I said. “I don’t have anything to talk about.”
“Well, that’s okay too!” Mom said brightly. “You can talk about whatever you want, it doesn’t have to be anything big.”
“We can hang, right, leoncito? No pressure?” Tío Billy said.
“I just don’t understand where this is coming from,” I said, shaking my head. “Am I being punished for something?”
“Punished?” Mom asked, incredulous.
“Well, you ordered me up a babysitter,” I said, feeling the frustration rise in my gut. I looked at Tío Billy. “I’m really glad to see you and everything, but I don’t need any ‘male influence.’”
“I thought—” Mom began, then dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “After your . . . incident at school, I thought maybe you’d feel more comfortable with your emotions if you had someone in your life that you could relate to,” she said. “Another guy, you know. To help you talk through things.” She sighed, her breath ragged. “I know I’m not around very much, Martín,” she said, suddenly very serious, “but you know I love you more than anything. I just want you to thrive!”
My head was swimming, and for a moment I felt just like I had in math class that day. I stood up from the dinner table abruptly, shoving my chair away.
“Martín?” Mom said, looking surprised.
I don’t . . .” I struggled to figure out what to say. “I’m . . . Tío Billy, I’m really sorry she made you drive all the way up here for me, but I’m fine. I don’t need to be ‘influenced,’ or whatever.” The more the words spilled out, the angrier I got, and then I couldn’t stop.
“I’m sorry I’m not like you!” I yelled, turning my gaze on Mom, who was sitting with her hands folded in her lap. Suddenly she looked like a scared, sad little kid, but it was too late. “Sorry I don’t vocalize every single thought or feeling that has ever passed through my head! Some of us like to think before we speak! I don’t know why that’s such a bad thing!”
“Baby,” Mom said. Her cheeks were stained with tears and her nose was red.
“No, okay? I’m fine. I’m fine by myself. I’m pretty used to that by now. I don’t need Tío Billy to teach me how to be a man, because I’ve been the only guy in this house since Dad left!”
Mom looked as though my words had physically hit her. And this is why I never speak my mind. It never comes out the way I want it to.
Tío Billy started to stand up from the table and come over to me, but tears were brimming in my eyes and a lump rising in my throat, so I threw my napkin down on my plate and ran off as fast as I could.
Halfway upstairs, I realized I never told them my news, and that somehow made me even angrier. I stopped mid-stair.
“And by the way,” I yelled, “I’m captain of the Mathletes!”
And then I pounded up to my room and slammed the door.
I landed face down in my bed, feeling so awful I could puke. I’ve never raised my voice to Mom before. Not once. Not ever. I swore I’d never do that after hearing Dad scream at her over and over again before the divorce. And now I’d gone and made her cry, and probably Tío Billy, too, all in one nig
ht. I planted my face firmly into my pillow.
She was just trying to do something nice. She didn’t mean to offend me, she just wants me to be happy. I felt hot tears sneak out of the corners of my eyes. I had been a jerk. A huge, massive jerk.
I wiped my nose on the back of my hand and sat up, trying to catch my breath. I could hear Mom and Tío Billy’s muffled voices talking at the bottom of the stairs. I got off my bed and tiptoed to the door, cracking it open just enough to hear what they were saying.
“I don’t know what’s going on with him,” Mom said. I could picture her pacing and wringing her hands. “Do I go up there?”
“Let him be,” Tío Billy said, his low voice carrying upward. “He needs a little space.” I heard Mom sniffle, and then a pause—I think they were hugging. “He didn’t mean what he said, Gena. He was just upset and surprised.”
“I thought he’d like the surprise,” Mom said, her voice thick. “I thought he’d be happy to see you.”
“He was, mana, but we also caught him off guard,” Tío Billy said. “Remember how I was at his age? Everything was the end of the world. He’ll be all right once he cools down. Just give him some time. C’mon.”
Their footsteps disappeared, rounding the corner back into the kitchen. I closed my door carefully, so it wouldn’t squeak, then slumped to the ground with my back against it. The terrible feeling of having upset Mom was eating away at my insides.
Eventually I scraped myself off the floor and shuffled over to my telescope. My dad got it for me for my birthday—well, the last birthday he was here for, six years ago. I never got to use it with him. It’s not fancy or anything and its tech is pretty old at this point, but it does the job. Sometimes I look through it at night and pretend that I’m already a famous astronomer, searching the sky for signs of alien life or new galaxies hundreds of light years away. I haven’t found anything like that yet, but maybe someday I will.
Martin McLean, Middle School Queen Page 3
