by Lenore Look
“No,” said Flea. “It was for my grandma. And it was really beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” I said.
“There were flowers all over the place,” said Flea. “My granny loved flowers.”
That didn’t sound too creepy.
“And the music was fantastic,” said Flea. “They played my granny’s favorite songs, the ones that she liked singing along to in the car.”
The thoughts in my brain went round and round. I wondered when Flea was going to mention the dead body.
“I was really sad at first,” said Flea. “But the music made her come back to life again, and I could hear her singing at the top of her lungs while she drove me to the mall.”
Dead people drive? That sure explained a lot of things. Like the time I went with my dad to the DMV and a bunch of dead-looking people were waiting in line for their licenses. Maybe Flea’s granny was one of them and I didn’t even know it!
“My granny was a very nice lady and everyone had special things to say about her,” said Flea. “And their stories about her made her even more alive than the music did.”
Yikes!
“Did your granny really die?” asked Ophelia. “Or is she leading tours in her house like Louisa May Alcott?”
“She’s really dead,” Flea said, suddenly gloomy. “The saddest part was when they closed her coffin at the end and she didn’t get out.”
Then Flea got very, very quiet.
“She didn’t even try,” said Flea, wiping a tear from her eye.
The girls said they were sorry Flea lost her granny, which was a really weird thing to say when Flea’s granny wasn’t lost at all. She was buried at the cemetery under a stone with her name and telephone number on it.
Wasn’t she?
“Did you get any signs that your granny was going to die?” I asked Flea.
“Signs?” asked Flea.
“You know, from Above.” I rolled my eyes upward, like in prayer.
Flea’s head tipped with the thought.
“You mean like an omen?” she asked.
“What’s an omen?” I asked.
“It’s a message,” said Flea, “but not written with words.”
“Oh,” I said.
“You never want to get one of those,” said Flea. “They’re bad luck.”
“Bad luck?”
“Real bad,” said Flea. “Once they start, you’ll begin to see signs all over the place. It’s like the entire universe knows something and is shouting it to you.”
“Like when a picture falls off the wall for no reason,” said Sara Jane, “it means the person in the picture will die.”
“Or if you see a clock that stops suddenly,” said Eli, “it means your time is up.”
“In India,” said Esha, “seeing an owl during daylight means that someone in your family will die within the year.”
“I’ve heard of people ‘cheating’ death,” said Ophelia.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I think it’s like cheating on a test,” said Ophelia. “You’ve gotten a D for death, but you change it to an A for alive, when nobody’s looking.”
“How do you do that?” I asked.
“Well, when Death comes, you gotta look like someone younger,” said Ophelia. “You can’t look dead. You gotta sit up straight.”
“Oh,” I said, sitting as straight as a chopstick.
“My grandpa said that the surest sign of death is to dream of a birth or a wedding,” said Nhia. “You can’t cheat that.”
“A dream?” My voice cracked like bone.
“I’d definitely die if I dreamt I got married,” said Pinky.
“Me too,” said Eli.
“What if you dream of a funeral?” I asked.
Silence.
The eyes on the bus went left and right.
The windows on the bus went clackity-clack.
This was how it was for the rest of the ride to school.
It was the worst sign of all.
this is what happens when I arrive at school.
My tongue is stuck like a pincushion with a thousand pins.
My mouth fills with sand.
My heart buzzes like a hummingbird’s.
I make no eye contact.
“Alvin? Alvin Ho?”
It was Miss P. She’s our second-grade teacher and she’s very nice.
But she has a habit of calling on you when you least expect it, which is all the time.
“Can you tell us something about the Algonkians that was different from the Puritans?” asked Miss P.
Algonkians and Puritans?
Silence.
Weren’t they the names of Little League teams that Calvin’s team had played against? One wore red and the other wore green? I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t remember.
But I can tell you that Miss P’s hair looks like cornsilk when she walks by the windows and she smells like fresh laundry every day, especially when she’s standing next to your desk. This I can remember even with my eyes closed.
But my eyes were not closed. They were wide open to show that I was paying attention, which her letter to the Parents of Alvin Ho said that I needed to work on.
I’ll show her.
I made Ping-Pong ball eyes.
They stared at her shoes (to avoid eye contact).
I kept my hands in plain sight.
“Alvin?” said Miss P, gently. She’s very fair. She always gives me a chance to answer even though she knows my voice didn’t make it to school with me.
Silence.
Then something long and boneless like an octopus tentacle waved above my head. It was Flea’s arm. She’s my desk buddy and she sits next to me in class.
“I know! I know!” said Flea eagerly.
“Yes, Sophie,” said Miss P, using Flea’s real name.
“The Algonkians made their clothes from the skins of deer and moose and beaver and other wild animals,” said Flea, breathlessly. “And from the feathers of birds too.”
“That’s right,” said Miss P, smiling and nodding at Flea. “And what did the Puritans make their clothes from?”
“Cloth,” said Flea. “They were vegetarian.”
Miss P smiled. “The Puritans fished, hunted and trapped for food,” she said.
“Oh,” said Flea, disappointed.
“What else was different between the Algonkians and Puritans?” Miss P asked, looking around. “This question will be on your history test, and you’ll need to remember one difference between them.”
Esha waved.
“When an Algonkian died, they grieved by painting their faces and wailing in mourning ceremonies,” she said. “Puritan funerals were quick and quiet, without the fancy stuff.”
“Excellent,” said Miss P.
Then Sara Jane’s hand shot up.
“Alvin’s going to a funeral,” announced Sara Jane, sounding like she was giving helpful information.
“Oh?” said Miss P, turning and looking at me with more concern than before. “Who died, Alvin?”
“His gunggung,” said Scooter, answering for me.
“Alvin told us on the bus,” said Nhia.
“Yup,” said Sam, nodding sadly.
Miss P gasped.
I froze.
“I’m so sorry, Alvin,” said Miss P. “I had no idea.”
I had no idea either. I wanted to tell Miss P that they had gotten it all wrong. It wasn’t my gunggung who had died, but his friend. But I couldn’t. My lips were stapled shut.
“I didn’t get a chance to meet your grandpa,” said Miss P, “but I know that he was one of our grandparent volunteers in the library.”
I wrapped my feet around the legs of my desk.
I kept my hands in plain sight.
“Mr. Kemp will be very sad to get your news,” Miss P continued. “I’ll let him know as soon as I can.”
“MY GUNGGUNG IS OKAY!” I wanted to scream. “HE DIDN’T DIE! HE’S STILL ALIVE!!!!!” But nothing
came out of my mouth.
My vocal cords grew hair.
And the hair tangled into a hairball.
I gagged silently.
Everything in the room faded to gray.
“Was Alvin’s grandpa Algonkian or Puritan?” Ophelia asked.
“Neither,” said Miss P. “I think that he was Chinese, and the Chinese have their own funeral traditions.”
Silence.
“I’m so sorry, Alvin,” Miss P said again. “I’ll write your parents a note and send it home with you tonight.”
I was so sorry too. My dad always says, “The sooner you tell someone about a mistake, the less trouble there’ll be for you later.”
So right there and then I could smell trouble coming at me like a fox going after a chicken egg.
I blinked.
Was this another death omen? After all, how can so many people mistakenly think that my gunggung has died unless—gasp!—he’s actually about to die?
I swallowed. I breathed in. I breathed out. I did my best not to cry. But before I knew it I was crying full blast like a fire hydrant in an emergency! “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
crying in school has its advantages:
You get to go to the nurse’s office for a time-out.
You get as many bathroom passes as you want.
The lunch ladies give you free chocolate milk.
Everyone is super-duper nice to you.
Best of all, the rest of the day goes by in a blur. Usually.
But this was not usual. There was a terrible misunderstanding. So nothing blurred … and when nothing blurs, you can see clearly the many disadvantages to crying in school:
The principal stops you at recess and says, “I’m very sorry, Alvin.”
You had no idea that the principal even knew your name.
The principal says, “Your grandpa was a very kind and generous man. We’re all going to miss him very much.”
The principal tries to talk to you some more.
You freak out.
You run away as fast as you can.
You see your gunggung’s face everywhere as you zip down the hall—on the coat hooks, in the windows, on the stairs and even on a gum wrapper on the floor!
And just when you think you’ve outrun her, you turn and see that the principal is still following you. Yikes!
Quick, I slipped into the library. There are places to hide in the library. Plus, it’s the only place where it’s perfectly okay to not talk at all, which makes it the only safe place for me in the whole, entire school. In fact, Mr. Kemp, our librarian, says I’m the library’s best bookworm on account of I’m as silent as a worm.
I clutched my PDK and slid behind a low shelf and rolled myself into the smallest ball that I could, in the farthest corner away from everything.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
I felt the soft carpet under me.
I wiggled my anterior.
Then I wiggled my posterior.
Ahem. The most embarrassing thing about being a worm is that it’s hard to tell the difference between my head and my butt. But everything else rocks.
I’m very muscular.
And slimy.
I can tell when it’s going to rain.
I can feel vibrations in the air.
“We should do something to honor him,” said a vibration. It was Mr. Kemp.
“He started volunteering here when his daughter was a student,” said another vibration. Gasp! It was Miss Madhaven, the principal.
“It would be nice if the children could celebrate his life,” said Mr. Kemp. “We could have a Chinese ceremony for him.”
“I thought of that too,” said Miss Madhaven. “I tried to speak to Alvin about it, but he ran away before I could say anything.”
“The little fellow must be in shock,” said Mr. Kemp.
“Terrible shock,” said Miss Madhaven. “I understand that his classmates are sad for him too.”
“I’m planning a special activity for his class today,” said Mr. Kemp.
“That’s a good idea,” said Miss Madhaven. “And we’ll have a little memorial service with them tomorrow.”
I opened my eyes in time to see Miss Madhaven march out and Miss P march in with the whole class behind her. Everyone was clutching their books to return, everyone, that is, except me. I can never remember when library day is, so all of my books were still at home. But I clutched my PDK and popped out of my hiding place and right into my spot at the end of the line.
“Welcome to library hour,” said Mr. Kemp.
My anterior went up.
“I have good news and bad news,” Mr. Kemp continued. “The bad news is that Alvin lost his grandfather, as you all know.”
That was a weird thing to say. I thought that he thought that my gunggung was dead, not lost.
Heads turned.
“I’m very sorry, Alvin,” said Mr. Kemp, his voice cracking like dried leftover rice. “I miss him terribly, and I know you miss him even more.”
I pulled in my anterior and my posterior.
I kept my PDK in plain sight.
“IT’S ALL A MISTAKE!” I wanted to shout, but I couldn’t. Worms have no vocal cords. But worms have five hearts, which, when they pump like crazy, hurt like crazy, which made me want to set the record straight once and for all and lead an honest life.
“Your classmates will miss him too,” Mr. Kemp continued. “Your grandpa has been reading to them during story hour since kindergarten.”
It was true. My gunggung doesn’t come every week, but he takes turns with the other grandparents.
“This class will have a special memorial service for Alvin’s gunggung tomorrow,” said Mr. Kemp.
A memorial service? What’s that? A funeral for someone who isn’t dead yet?
“So today we will read about Chinese funeral traditions and then do a craft project for tomorrow’s ceremony,” said Mr. Kemp.
“MY GUNGGUNG ISN’T DEAD!” I wanted to scream, but my mouth had filled with clay.
Worse, Mr. Kemp began reading creepy stuff about Chinese funerals:
“ ‘The Chinese believe that funerals are filled with bad omens and bad spirits trying to trade places with the new dead person in the afterlife.’ ”
Yikes!
“ ‘When the family leaves for the funeral, every light in the house must be turned on to help the deceased find his or her way out.…
“ ‘Once they leave the house for the funeral, the Chinese do not look back, which they believe will point death into the house again. And no one returns home for any reason until the service is over, for fear of leading the deceased back to be trapped.’ ”
No wonder Concord has so many dead authors stuck in their homes leading tours!
“ ‘During the wake, friends of the deceased gamble near the coffin while they’re guarding the corpse; the gambling helps the guards stay awake all night—’ ”
“Mr. Kemp,” Flea interrupted.
Mr. Kemp stopped. He looked up from his book.
“Alvin hasn’t breathed since you started reading,” said Flea. “I think he’s all freaked out.”
Everyone turned.
Maybe I was freaked out, and maybe I wasn’t. Who could tell? I was wearing my emergency scary mask to scare away all the scary thoughts.
“Alvin?” said Mr. Kemp. “Are you okay, Alvin?”
Silence.
Fortunately, Mr. Kemp is a very good librarian. He has a laser gun for checking out books, and an ink pad for fingerprinting criminals. He can read books facing away from him as though they were not. And he knows when to stop reading and take out his hot-glue gun.
Making a craft, as everyone knows, can calm you down. And it can help you remember a story better.
So I put away my mask.
I cut.
I pasted.
I colored.
We were making paper houses and filling them with paper furniture and paper food and paper money.
Paper cars went into the paper garages. Paper logs into the paper fireplaces.
“The Chinese believe that they can make the afterlife comfortable for their loved ones by making paper symbols of things that they’ll need,” said Mr. Kemp. “So they make paper houses and fill them with useful things. Then they burn these at the funeral, and the smoke is believed to carry everything to heaven.”
My scissors stopped in midair.
“Alvin’s gunggung’s gonna have SO MANY houses in heaven!” cried Flea, eyeballing everyone’s craft project with her one good eye.
“And baseballs too!” said Nhia, putting a paper baseball and glove in his paper house. “He loved baseball.”
“Yeah,” said Sam, cutting a pile of little rectangles. “I’m giving him season tickets to the Red Sox.”
My paste dried up.
My crayons rolled away.
Paper houses for the afterlife? It was the creepiest craft ever!
Worse, it was another omen, I was sure of it. If my gunggung wasn’t about to die, why would we be making him paper houses?
I turned ghostly cold.
Something dribbled out of my nose.
I had a bad sinking feeling that I was headed for so much trouble, I needed to save my paper house for myself!
i was getting closer and closer to that creepy funeral, but first there was going to be a memorial service for my gunggung, who wasn’t dead yet, and if my mom and dad ever found out about it, there’d be another funeral—mine!
So I shut my eyes.
And hurried home.
When the bus dropped me off, I flew up my driveway and burst into my house.
“HIIIIMOMMIMHOMMME!!!” I yelled. “ISITOKAYIFIGOTOPOHPOHANDGUNGGUNG’SHOUSE?”
It was one of those days when my mom was working from home, which meant that my gunggung was hanging out at his own house. My mom and Anibelly and Lucy were doing Yoga Without Pain in front of the TV.
Oooh, I love Yoga Without Pain. But I had no time for it.
“That would be fine, darling,” said my mom in upward dog. “How was school today?”
