“Naw,” said Scott. He waved his hand toward the field. “We own it.”
This was news to me. Scott lived in Fox Run, one of the nicest subdivisions in our area. His house was huge. He could take in two grandmothers, no sweat.
“Really? Since when?”
Scott shrugged. “A while.”
“What are your parents doing with a second house? Is this going to be a rental or something?” I almost said vacation house, but that was stupid. Why would Scott’s parents buy a vacation house two miles from their regular house?
“Don’t ask me to explain my parents,” he said. He zipped up his jacket. “So, do you want to dig a fallout shelter, or not?”
It was strange, but the idea of digging a fallout shelter, which was for a worst-case scenario, made me feel better. Maybe it’s because I would actually be doing something. “Yeah, let’s dig.”
Scott paced off the different areas of the shelter. “One for you, one for me, and one for supplies.” He made the shape of a star, with different arms coming off one main room.
“What about Hector?”
Scott didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he reached into his backpack and pulled out a small shovel. He unfolded the handle with a click.
“Here’s the thing,” Scott said. “You have to be really careful who you invite into a shelter. The wrong person could bring you down or make you weak. See, like, I didn’t even invite my own parents; I’m only talking to you. I don’t know about Hector. He might not be strong enough. His parents make his life awfully easy for him.”
That didn’t seem fair. Hector actually had more chores than I did, and his parents expected him to get straight As. His dad was a marine. I wondered if I should point this out.
“My uncle was on a submarine, and they have to pass all these tests to see if they can take it, the time below the surface plus being in crowded quarters,” continued Scott. “Some people get kind of nuts and we could be down there a long time. Only the strong survive.”
While I didn’t necessarily agree about Hector being weak, it was kind of cool to be the one friend Scott would pick. And the thing was, I did want in, which meant agreeing, at least for now, with the guy whose family owned the property where we were digging.
“We can decide later,” I said.
“If there’s time,” said Scott.
“We have at least until Tuesday,” I said. When Scott gave me a strange look, I explained my theory, about how Tuesday was the only sensible day to expect an attack.
“I don’t know how to break this to you,” said Scott. “But history does not back you up on this. Attack on Pearl Harbor? Sunday morning. The beginning of the Korean War was also on a Sunday.” Scott shook his head. “You’re expecting these guys to be like us. They’re not. They’re going to be merciless, and we have to be tough.”
I couldn’t believe how quickly Scott had destroyed my argument. He was right, though—something terrible could happen at any minute.
“Let’s just start digging,” I said, trying to hide my expression.
“Don’t freak out, though, okay?” said Scott. “We are going to be okay. We’re doing something. We’re going to survive.”
What about Hector and everyone else? I wanted to ask. But there was also something reassuring in how confident Scott was. If I just did what he said, we’d be okay.
Scott held the shovel over his head. “To the fallout shelter!” he shouted. He handed me the shovel. I guess I had to yell something, too.
“To survival!” Then, to prove how manly I was, I slammed the shovel blade into the earth. The blade went in about halfway.
“This is it,” said Scott. “No going back.”
I dug first, which was tough with the little shovel. Then I gave the shovel to Scott. Even though it was cold out, we both got sweaty. Also, it was hard to stay excited while you were digging a hole, which is why I pulled out my trivia book.
“Okay,” I said. “What country’s secret police is known as the Stasi?”
“East Germany.” He didn’t even look up.
“Too easy,” I said, since I knew that one, too. I shuffled through the book until I found a trick question. “Whose nickname means ‘man of steel’?”
“Superman, duh.”
That’s what I had thought until I read the question more carefully. “It doesn’t ask whose nickname is the man of steel, it asks whose name means ‘man of steel.’”
“I stand by my answer,” said Scott.
“It’s Stalin.”
“Stinking Soviets. They tried to steal Superman’s nickname.” Scott punched the shovel down in the hole, a little harder than he needed to. “These questions are annoying. I’m trying to dig.”
That kind of stung, especially since we had the county contest to prepare for, but I put the book away. We took a break for Coke and Funyuns, which Scott also had in his backpack. Then he handed the shovel to me.
When I got home, I left my shoes outside. Even if my mom hadn’t had the no-shoes-in-the-house rule, I knew they were too muddy to wear inside. As far as I can tell, most Chinese homes have the no-shoes rule, though my dad is the one who loves walking around in his socks and asks my friends to take their shoes off.
Our house already smelled like Thanksgiving. I could smell cinnamon, apple, and pumpkin. And butter. There must be a part of your brain that’s just for enjoying butter. But when I got to the kitchen, it didn’t sound like Thanksgiving.
“I thought you were making a meringue.” Granny M was standing behind Wai Po, who was whisking egg whites in a silver bowl. There was a sk-sk-sk of metal on metal.
“I am,” said Wai Po.
“Then I’m confused,” said Granny M, “because meringue is supposed to have peaks, like mountains. You’re making valleys.”
“I see a peak,” said Wai Po. “You can’t have valleys without peaks. Maybe you should have your vision checked. And you should check the apples on the stove. I think they are burning.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. The only thing sharper than my vision,” said Granny M, “is my sense of smell.”
If the Soviets didn’t blow us up, my grandmothers just might.
As I got cleaned up, I dissected my conversation with Kelli Ann as if it was an earthworm. She’d shared something personal with me, about her parents’ divorce. That had to mean something, even if I hadn’t come up with anything intelligent to say back. Before that, the most personal thing I knew about Kelli Ann was that she had a Trapper Keeper with horses on it.
In science, Mrs. Osterberg had been teaching us about the scientific method, which is how scientists develop experiments. You had sections like Purpose (why you were doing the experiment) and Hypothesis (how you thought things were going to turn out). You also had to look at Independent Variables (things that changed), Dependent Variables (things that changed because of the Independent Variables), and Constant Variables (things that always stayed the same).
I thought about talking to Kelli Ann along the lines of the scientific method. My purpose was how to get Kelli Ann to think I was interesting. My hypothesis was that some sentences worked better than others. Kelli Ann thought I was interesting when I saved the seventh grade from poison ivy, but I was pretty sure that was a one-shot deal. Besides, Hector was there, so that didn’t totally count. She also seemed to like talking about Thanksgiving. Maybe I was doomed to only talk to her about things that happened once a year. I knew lots of interesting trivia but it was sort of like what happened in the video store—as soon as I saw her, it all went out of my head.
When I was in fifth grade and we had to do this pen pal thing with a school out in Minnesota, our teacher told us we should ask questions when we didn’t know what to say, because people liked to talk about themselves. But the only questions I could think of for Kelli Ann were What makes you smell so good? and If I asked you to see a movie, would you say yes?
The hard part was school, the constant variable in this scenario. There were alway
s other people and other things to worry about. Who could think straight with all the pushing and noise and chatter? How was someone supposed to come up with something to talk about? Something conversation-worthy. And under a time crunch, too. Even Shakespeare wouldn’t have been able to come up with all those lines—To be, or not to be—that is the question—if he had to walk from one end of the building to the other and dress for PE in two minutes.
If we were going to really get to know each other, it would have to be somewhere private. Like a fallout shelter. Suddenly, I saw a small, possible upside to nuclear war: In a fallout shelter, it would be quiet. I could see us sitting side by side, Kelli Ann’s head on my shoulder. I’d be able to smell her hair without moving my head—apple blossom shampoo—at least until the smell wore off and we couldn’t take showers anymore. We could talk about our favorite movies and books. Maybe we’d even use some of our precious battery power to play music. Something soft and slow that didn’t make you think of the mambo cha-cha.
We’d have all the time in the world. There’d be no interruptions.
It’d be great.
As I’ve said before, liking a girl does strange things to your mind. I was actually imagining a scenario where nuclear war wasn’t a complete and total disaster.
It’s not like we could get out of the hole right away. We’d probably have to stay in there for weeks until it was safe to come out. I would make her laugh when things got rough, and make her feel safe. It’d be my chance to be the greatest guy in the world, like the poison ivy thing, times a million.
Just me and Kelli Ann.
Except.
After a few weeks, I’d develop massive BO from not being able to shower. She wouldn’t be able to shower, either, which might even things out, though I couldn’t imagine Kelli Ann with BO. Ditto for teeth brushing. Kissing, even with equally gross mouths, was not an attractive option. The batteries for the radio would eventually die out, which meant no more music, which I was counting on to fill in any awkward moments.
Kelli Ann would probably end up wishing that she’d been zapped instead of having to hang out with me.
Okay—nix the nuclear-war-as-way-to-get-to-know-Kelli-Ann idea.
It would be better to try to get to know her under more civilized circumstances. Ones where I’d be decent-smelling and not too idiotic.
Preferably a place where I’d stand out and be noticed.
And maybe even a little manly.
Like my bar mitzvah.
We wouldn’t be alone, but I’d have to spend time with her. Granny M had been really clear on that: “You’ll have to make the rounds, David, and thank everyone for coming.” And I’d know everyone there, except maybe some really old relatives, and I’d just have to pretend to know them, according to Granny M. I would be the center of attention—an idea both terrifying and appealing in its possibilities. Kelli Ann would have to notice me. She might want to dance with me. If I couldn’t be the most popular guy at my own bar mitzvah, I should probably go live in a hole in the ground now.
All I needed was a killer speech, some great music to dance to, and two grandmothers who wouldn’t embarrass me to death.
After dinner, Wai Po asked me to go for a walk with her and Bao Bao. I was going to say no, but then Mom gave me the raised eyebrow and mouthed be nice. I got my jacket.
Wai Po grabbed a white plastic bag and handed it to me. “For da bian,” she said. Even though I don’t speak much Chinese, I knew what that meant. Nobody else in our neighborhood carried a bag for da bian, but the apartments where Wai Po had lived were part of a planned community where it was required.
Sure enough, we were only a block away when Bao Bao squatted. I sighed and put the bag over my hand, but Wai Po grabbed the bag away from me.
“Ai!” she said in a scolding voice. “That’s dirty!”
Well, yeah, I knew that. I was trying to be nice, picking it up for her. For a small dog, Bao Bao makes giant, bad-smelling poo.
Wai Po grinned and made a big show of putting the bag over her hand. Then she bent down and picked up a small brown object out of the neighbors’ yard. Only it wasn’t poo. It was a pinecone.
Wai Po flipped the bag inside out, twisted it closed, and handed it back to me. “Da bian,” she announced, the same way you would say “ta-da!” Is that what she’d been doing all of these months? Carrying around a bag of pinecones? I had to admit, it was pretty brilliant. Anybody looking at her would think it was the real da bian. And anyone seeing the poop near the O’Dowds’ bush would never think of blaming my grandmother. This was even better than the fake poop trick they sold at Spencer’s—mostly because that poop cost $2.95, and the pinecones were free.
We walked a little farther. I took out another bag and picked up two more pinecones.
Wai Po smiled. “Bao Bao really had to go today,” she said.
If only I had known this from the beginning, I wouldn’t have complained so much every time I had to walk the dog.
I grabbed another pinecone and added it to the bag. “Do not overdo,” Wai Po said. “That is the key. Bao Bao is a small dog.”
Who knew Wai Po could be so sneaky? It actually made me appreciate her a little more.
“Wow, Wai Po,” I said. “You have all sorts of hidden talents.”
Wai Po laughed. “You don’t know anything about your Wai Po. You think I’m just an old woman. But I was a beautiful girl. So many boyfriends! Your grandfather was lucky to get me.” She smiled proudly. Then she added, “But I was also lucky.” She held out her hand. “Even though we did not have wedding rings in China, your grandfather wanted me to have a ring when we came to the US.” The ring on her hand was gold with a pearl and a ruby.
I knew the other story of the ring, the one my grandmother didn’t like to talk about as much. My grandfather had decided to have the ring engraved with his name, but the engraver messed up his name. Instead of Love, Shao Long, the engraver had written, Love, Shao Lom. Instead of having it fixed, my grandfather told my grandmother that as long as she kept the ring on her finger, no one would see the mistake.
“When I die, Lauren will have it,” she declared. “Now I only have Bao Bao, and you and Lauren. You are the apples in my eye.”
I decided this was not a good time to correct Wai Po’s English, even though multiple apples in the eye sounded kind of painful.
“Granny M says that Lauren will get her wedding ring, too,” I said, hoping that Wai Po would see that she and Granny M were more alike than she thought.
Instead, Wai Po gave the leash a tug so we could head back home. “Amazing anyone married her,” she grunted.
“You guys actually have a lot in common,” I said. I put on my best grandson smile. “Including me.”
Wai Po sighed. “David, do you know what wai in wai po means?”
Wai sounded sort of like why, but I knew that wasn’t it. I shook my head.
“Wai means outside, like waimian,” said Wai Po. “When the daughter gets married, she belongs to the husband’s family, and the wai po is on the outside.” I’d never heard of that. Granny M would probably argue that she was the grandma on the outside.
“That’s in China, not here,” I said.
“Your last name is her last name. You have a bar mitzvah, but you do not go to Chinese school. The family belongs to her,” said Wai Po. “Even my own daughter is Jewish now. I have to work to keep my place, keep what’s mine.”
The closest Chinese school was an hour away and conflicted with Saturday-morning services, but I didn’t think that was my best argument. “You live with us,” I pointed out. “Granny M doesn’t.”
Wai Po nodded. “This is what I am talking about.”
“Are you saying that you got kicked out on purpose so you had to live with us?” I joked.
She shrugged. I couldn’t believe it. Wai Po had lived in a really nice place, with a swimming pool and a library and a huge garden. Mom always said that the grounds were “immaculate.”
Then
I looked down at Bao Bao, who was sniffing a fire hydrant. It all clicked together. “Did you get kicked out for picking up pinecones instead of Bao Bao’s poop?”
“Except for that one time, they could not prove anything,” Wai Po said.
“I invited Mr. Pickens to Thanksgiving,” Mom announced at breakfast. “He was going to spend Thanksgiving with his son, but now his son has to work. I couldn’t let him be alone.”
Mr. Pickens was a nice guy. He hosted a Fourth of July barbecue for the neighborhood, and he used to pay me to take in his mail and look after his dog, Rocky, when he went out of town. Based on how my grandmothers started acting, though, you’d have thought the president of the United States was coming. When Granny M told Lauren to start polishing the silver gravy boat, I decided that was my cue to get out before they recruited me.
Dad was hiding out in the family room, watching TV. Bao Bao was also in there, vigorously cleaning his butt. As soon as Dad saw me, he turned down the volume, but not before I heard a deep newscaster voice say, “… and the US is still reeling from the Soviet walkouts. More news at six. Now back to the game.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“Keep your voice down,” said Dad. “I’m not supposed to check on the scores before dinner.”
“No, but what did they say? Walk out from where? Geneva?” Now that the TV volume was off, Bao Bao’s licking was really loud. Glurp, glurp, glurp.
“It’s because the first parts of the cruise missiles just arrived in the UK,” explained Dad. “The Soviets didn’t want to have US missiles in Europe. They walked out of the disarmament talks.” He glanced at the TV. “C’mon, St. Louis!” Dad wasn’t really a Cardinals fan. He just wanted the Cowboys to lose.
Now we had all the elements of Thanksgiving: food, football … and imminent nuclear disaster.
“But is this it?” I thought I was going to be sick. Maybe the Soviets were walking out so they could go back to Russia and press the button. Just as Scott said, this would be a perfect day for them to attack, when everyone was fat and lazy from too much turkey.
This Is Just a Test Page 5
