I’d only been gone from the school for about fifteen minutes, but I started to feel kind of bad. Would they send Officer Pete out to look for me? He was the one they usually called if there was any trouble at the school. I did not want to make trouble for Officer Pete again. He had enough problems without me running around town.
Then, as I was walking past the kung-fu movie theater, thinking I should head on back to school and face the world of scolding I had coming to me, a small miracle happened. My dad walked out of the movie theater right in front of me.
Thirteen
Mr. Hartnell
“Journey?” Dad said, shading his eyes in the sun. “What...why…hold on, what time is it?” He looked at his watch. “One thirty? Shouldn’t you…wait a second…what day is it?”
I was starting to think maybe anyone on earth would be more useful than my dad at that moment. He couldn’t seem to get his brain to work. “It’s Tuesday,” I said. Then I stood on my tiptoes and tried to sniff his breath.
“I’m not drunk,” he said, pointing back at the theater. “I’ve been at a kung-fu movie marathon.” He rubbed his head.
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” I said, even though I actually thought it must have been pretty groovy. On the inside, I couldn’t stop thinking my dad was one of the coolest people on earth, but on the outside I acted like a teacher talking to a student who wasn’t trying hard enough. It made me feel kind of scrambled.
Dad seemed to know what I was thinking. “You look confused, Journey. And I desperately need a coffee. Let’s go.”
We crossed over to the Ovaltine Café and got a booth in the back. The waitress came and took our order quickly, smiling at my dad in a way I didn’t like. Then he watched as she wiggled back to the kitchen to get the coffee and a strawberry milkshake for me. I sat there thinking that maybe if she didn’t wear those high-heeled shoes, she wouldn’t wiggle when she walked. Also her feet would feel better. Dad lit a cigarette but put it out when I scowled at him.
“You don’t like smoking, huh?” he said. “Quite the judgmental little thing. Anything else you don’t like?”
“I don’t like men who look at ladies like they’re pictures on a wall, designed to be pretty and impress people.”
Dad’s eyes nearly fell out. “Wow,” he said. “Where did that come from?”
“Mom’s consciousness-raising group,” I said. “First Tuesday of the month at our place.”
“Oh God, I’m doomed,” Dad said. The waitress brought our drinks. “I’m sorry I objectified you,” Dad said to her. “I value you as a human being, not as a target of my oppressive, chauvinistic gaze.”
The waitress slapped the bill down on the table. “Heavy,” she said in a bored voice. “I hope that means I get a big tip.” Then she wiggled away as I tried to fix objectified, oppressive and chauvinistic in my head.
Dad slurped his coffee with what I could tell was fake remorse on his face. I couldn’t help laughing.
“Why aren’t you in school, kid?” he said to me, adding about eight packets of sugar to his coffee. I added two packets to my milkshake, and he didn’t even blink. I liked that.
“I got upset about the pandas,” I said. Then I told him about Michael Booker and his awful family and how I swore in class and the substitute called me “missy.”
“I used to ditch school a lot when I was your age,” Dad said. “But we better drink up and head on back there before you get in more trouble. I’m sure the pandas are fine.”
Dad left a dollar on the table. I could see from the bill that our waitress got a quarter for a tip. I didn’t know if that was good or bad, and I didn’t want to wait around to find out.
Dad took me straight up to the office when we got back to the school. Mrs. Bent looked up from her typing as we came in.
“Aha! There you are,” she said. Then she looked at Dad suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“I’m Journey’s father,” he said. Mrs. Bent looked like she didn’t believe him. But she looked at me again, then at him, then back to me. Finally she relaxed a bit.
“I can see the resemblance.” She busily pulled a green form, a yellow form and a red form from the filing cabinet. “Mr. Song, if you are going to take your child from school during class hours, you need to let us know by filling in one of these forms.” She shoved the green form into his face.
“Uh…” Dad said, taking the form.
“Meanwhile, if that child is returned to the school the same day, you need to fill out this yellow form.” She gave Dad another form. “Finally, Journey has been involved in an incident where profane language was directed at another student. You will need to fill out the top part of the red form and have Mr. Hartnell sign it.”
“What’s the bottom part of the form for?” Dad asked.
“That’s if the language is directed at a staff member,” Mrs. Bent said. “Please have a seat while you complete the forms, Mr. Song. Mr. Hartnell will see you in a moment.”
“Chaparro,” Dad said.
“Bless you,” said Mrs. Bent. I couldn’t help it. I started to giggle.
“No, that’s my name. Chaparro. Tom Chaparro. Not Song.” Dad smiled hopefully.
Clearly Mrs. Bent was not as taken with his smile as I was. She narrowed her eyes at him and then fished out another form.
“Parental name changes go on the blue form. Bottom section.”
I sat there thinking I could probably explain all this if I tried, but it was kind of entertaining, and Dad didn’t seem to mind filling out all the forms. Except he didn’t know my birthdate. Or what grade I was in. Or our address or phone number. I started to feel scrambled again just thinking how little he knew about me.
Mrs. Bent continued her typing, looking up at us every once in a while, a stern expression on her face. It was all an act, I knew. Even though Mrs. Bent ran a tight ship at the school, deep down she was as soft as a fresh marshmallow. But leaving the school without permission was a very serious thing, and so was cursing in class, so Mrs. Bent had to pretend to be strict and disappointed when what she really wanted was to give me a hug and make me a cup of warm milk with cookies.
Finally Mr. Hartnell poked his head out of his office.
“You can come in now, Journey,” he said.
I introduced him to my dad, and they shook hands the way men do. Then they made stupid small talk, with Dad saying, “I knew a Hartnell down in Portland. Is he any relation?” and Mr. Hartnell saying, “Why, no, I don’t think so. Were you working in Portland?” then acting impressed when Dad said he worked for the newspaper. This went on for what felt like an hour.
I sighed with boredom, real loud, and finally they stopped.
“Well, let me see the red form,” Mr. Hartnell said.
Dad handed over the form as I sat there burning with embarrassment and a sense of injustice. I hear all about injustice at Mom’s meetings.
“It’s Michael Booker’s fault,” I said. “Ask him—he started it.”
“Michael Booker lit a fire in the playground at afternoon recess. He’s been sent home.”
“He lit a fire?” Dad said. “Man, he must be having a really bad day.”
That made me feel somewhat better. I grinned. Mr. Hartnell looked at me in that grown-up way that makes me so mad sometimes. The look says, I understand you kids better than you know. But I was thinking that neither Dad nor Mr. Hartnell could possibly understand me. I didn’t even understand myself, and I lived inside me.
“Michael Booker’s father was released from jail yesterday,” Mr. Hartnell said. “From all reports he came home, packed a suitcase and got on the transcontinental train before Michael even got home from school. So I imagine Michael is a bit upset.”
Boy, I hate grown-ups sometimes. Now I was feeling sorry for Michael instead of being mad at him. And why should I feel sorry for him because his dad ran off? My dad ran off before I even knew him, and okay, he came back, but still, Michael’s had his dad for all these years already. Then I remem
bered that for some of those years Mr. Booker was in jail, so that would have been pretty hard. But then I remembered that my dad had been in jail too, though probably not for punching a policeman. I wrote it down in my brain to ask him about that later.
Mr. Hartnell signed the red form. “We don’t need to take this any further, Mr. Chaparro. I’m sure Journey has learned her lesson and will watch her language from now on.”
I sat there thinking that I would watch my language, but I did’t know what lesson I learned. I was more confused than ever. Dad asked Mr. Hartnell if he could take me home even though there was still half an hour of school left. Mr. Hartnell was in the middle of answering when Mrs. Bent poked her head in.
“There’s a telephone call,” she said.
“Take a message, please,” Mr. Hartnell said.
“No, the call is not for you,” Mrs. Bent said. “It’s for Journey. Someone called Mr. Huang?”
Fourteen
Jen Chow
Talking to Mr. Huang on the phone is literally like playing that game Telephone. His English is pretty good, but he has a strong accent, and his store is really noisy, being right on Hastings Street and all. So I was pretty sure that he asked me to come to the store because he had something to show me. But he could have asked me to loan him a door because he had seventeen ponies. It sounded more like the second thing, but the first thing made more sense, so that’s what I went with, even though I thought it would be pretty nice to see seventeen ponies. Almost as nice as seeing two pandas.
But before I was allowed to leave school, I had to apologize to my teacher. I dreaded that. Not that I minded talking in front of the class. I’m not one of those people who is afraid to talk in front of crowds. But I was still kind of mad at the substitute. Not for any good reason. I think I was just mad at her for not being Miss Bickerstaff. My dad held my hand all the way back down to the classroom, so that made me feel a bit stronger.
The class was reading from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I got there. Books about chocolate and other foods are always popular at our school, and substitutes use them as bribes for good behavior. I guess the substitute had not had a very good day, behaviorwise. She looked up with a tired expression as I came in.
“You have something to say, Journey?” she said.
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for using such a bad word and making a disturbance in class. There is no excuse for something like that. In a way, I was objectifying Michael with my oppressive, judgmental gaze instead of valuing him as a human being. And, of course, you all have a right to be flabbergasted. As the old Chinese saying goes, ‘Don’t open a shop unless you like to smile,’ which I think can teach us all something, can’t it? You see, Michael just wanted to be loved, and love comes in all shapes and sizes, and we should be grateful for it however it looks. He and I just had a diplomatic scuffle and that left me in a kind of limbo. But we’re all in a kind of limbo now, because Miss Bickerstaff is away—no offense, Miss. So to conclude, I’m truly sorry I scandalized you all, and I’ll never do it again.”
The substitute just sat there with her mouth open, her knitting suspended in front of her. The rest of the class sat like dolls on a shelf again. Then Nancy started clapping. Then Anjali clapped, and so did David. Then Jen and Patty clapped. Soon the whole class was clapping, and so were Dad and Mr. Hartnell.
I grabbed my schoolbag and jacket with one hand, and my dad’s hand with the other. Then I took a deep bow and strode out of the class to the sound of my classmates cheering.
It was turning out to be a good day after all.
Mr. Huang was putting price stickers on boxes of cereal when Dad dropped me off at the store on his way to the newspaper office.
“Journey! Good to see you!” Mr. Huang said, setting the sticker gun down on the shelf. “I show you. I get it,” he said and disappeared into the back of his store. While I waited, I saw Jen Chow locking up her bicycle outside. I was jealous of that bicycle, because I only have a tiny one that Mom got me when I was six. It is way too small for me now, so I can’t ride it to school. Jen Chow’s bike is cool, but it’s wrong to be jealous, so I tried being happy for her instead.
“Is school out already?” I said to her when she came in.
“Uh-huh,” she said. Her English was getting better and better. “Riding downhill is fast,” she said. Then she picked up a basket and started putting a few things in it, noodles and cans of stuff I didn’t recognize. “You were funny today,” she said, inspecting a dusty can.
“Thanks,” I said. Then Jen shouted something in Chinese to the back of the store. I heard Mr. Huang shout something back.
“Mr. Huang gets the Chinese newspaper for I,” Jen said.
“For me,” I corrected.
“Oh, you read it too?”
“No, I…never mind.” I didn’t have the energy to explain. “Isn’t that the paper you want?” I pointed to the newspaper on the counter.
Jen looked over. “That one is Taiwanese. Very different.”
“How is it different? Isn’t the writing all the same?”
Jen looked at me as though I was the dumbest person she had ever met. “Writing is the same, yes. News is different.” She laughed a little. “Very different.”
Mr. Huang came back and handed Jen a newspaper. She folded it, and before she tucked it into her basket beside the cans and noodles, one of the pages flopped open and I saw something that looked very familiar.
“Wait a second. Can I see that?” I said. Jen handed me the paper. I spread it out on the counter and flipped to the page I’d seen. In the bottom corner was a photograph of my note about the pandas.
“Hallowed macaroni,” Jen said. Mr. Huang said something in Chinese.
Just as Mr. Huang was about to read the article under the photograph, Nancy came into the store.
“Oh, we’re reading Chinese?” she said. “Groovy. Can I help?” Then she started to read, again, like it was nothing in the world for a ten-year-old white girl with a serious reading problem to be able to read Chinese.
“Something child wants bear cats free is the headline,” said Nancy. She pointed at the headline and said, “I don’t know this word.”
“Capitalist,” supplied Mr. Huang.
“What’s that?”
“Long story,” said Mr. Huang as he pulled four donuts out of the cabinet.
We all chewed and sprinkled the counter with sugar as Nancy continued.
“School child writes note…fears for bear cats. Bear cats. That’s so funny.”
“Go on, please,” I said.
“Bear cats live in warehouse in…insignificant area.”
“Insignificant area? That’s not fair,” said Jen.
“It means neighborhood,” said Mr. Huang. “Keep going. Doing good.”
“Bear cats gift from center country people to beautiful country. Beautiful country bullet scold center country people. Bullet scold? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s not bullet scold,” Mr. Huang said. “It’s criticize.”
“Oooh,” said Nancy, devouring her donut while Mr. Huang took over.
“America falsely accused China of wrongdoing in unjust war against comrades in North Vietnam. China responded, suggesting pandas should return. However, bureaucratic, uh, misdeeds mean pandas must stay in warehouse. Child’s note requests pandas are free. Child is not educated to understand politics…individualism…capitalist lies…oh dear...” Mr. Huang took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Is it bad?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I understood everything, but I had a suspicion that having a Chinese newspaper write about you was not good.
“It is propaganda. Understand?”
I’d never heard of propaganda, and neither had Jen or Nancy. We all shook our heads.
Mr. Huang looked sad for a minute, but then he smiled. “Never mind. Not worth the worry,” he said. “I have good news. I forgot! Look.” He took a piece of paper out of an envelope on the counter. On
the paper was more handwritten Chinese. “Can you read it, Nancy?”
Nancy leaned forward and frowned at the note. “Happy bear cats. Eat more Bamboo. We are waiting note from Beautiful Country. Bamboo…where. I guess that’s a question. Bamboo where?”
“It’s from the boat guys!” I said. “They want to know where to get more bamboo. Oh jeez.”
“At least the pandas are okay,” said Jen. And I nodded, feeling like a fire had just been put out in my stomach.
At least the pandas were okay.
Fifteen
Patty Maguire
I looked up propaganda in the junior dictionary when I got home. This is what I found:
prop·a·gan·da
NOUN [prop-uh-gan-duh]
1. information, ideas, or rumors deliberately spread widely, through media or advertising, to help or harm the reputation of a person or group such as a government or a political party
So I figured that’s what Mr. Huang meant. The article in the Chinese newspaper was trying to make me—and my country, I guess—look bad. The dictionary gave an example of propaganda that had to do with the Nazis. No one likes to be associated with the Nazis, so I wasn’t too happy about that. How can wanting to help pandas be bad? Then I remembered Mr. Huang had read the words individualism and capitalist. The article had described me as a capitalist child. So I looked that up too. It took me a few tries to figure it out, but basically they were saying I was rich! Me, rich? I laughed so hard about it that Mom called out to see if I was dying.
Pandas on the Eastside Page 6
