by Maurene Goo
To Katherine Emma Hong
CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
Holly, don’t you think you should at least wear a new pair of jeans for the first day of school? Why don’t you dress up anymore?”
I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath. She was starting already. “Mom, I’m not in first grade. No one dresses up for the first day of school anymore. Don’t listen to those JCPenney commercials.”
As the words came out of my mouth, my eleven-year-old sister, Ann, walked into the kitchen looking like a “Back-To-School Cool!” advertisement in a JCPenney catalog. Her long hair was pulled back with a hot-pink headband that matched her hot-pink tank top, and she wore a long gray cardigan and black leggings. On her feet were black Chucks complete with hot-pink laces.
My mother looked pointedly at her and then at me. I glanced down at my gray hoodie, perfectly distressed skinny jeans, and flip-flops. I shrugged. “Ann’s still optimistic about life.” Mom rolled her eyes and went to finish getting ready in the bathroom.
Ann walked over to the refrigerator, where she pulled out a gallon of milk. And like every other morning before school, I pulled out two huge glasses. She poured milk to the very top of each glass, and then we chugged it all down.
I let out a loud dairy-induced burp. Ann countered it with an even louder burp. We laughed devilishly.
“GIRLS!” Mom hollered from the bathroom.
“WHAT? You’re the one who makes us drink this every morning! Don’t you know that Asians are naturally lactose intolerant?” I hollered back.
Mom rushed in, dressed in a suit, pulling curlers out from her hair and grabbing her purse. “I’m SO sorry that I work ten-hour days and don’t have time to make you spoiled brats a fancy breakfast like all the other moms do!”
I shook my head. “Wow, guilt projection much?”
She grabbed her keys and gave me a no-nonsense glare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but be quiet and hurry up because we’re ALL going to be late!”
Ann and I grabbed our backpacks and ran out the front door, jumping into the car as it was practically rolling down the driveway already. If anything, our mother was always efficient.
“Okay, Ann, do you know where to go for your first class?” Mom asked as she put on her makeup and eyed the traffic signal at the same time.
“Yessss. I’m not a baby!” Ann responded huffily.
“I’m not a baaaby!” I mimicked in a whiny voice, then yelped when Ann kicked me in the shin. I gave her a kick right back.
“You are BOTH being baby right now!” Mom shouted, steering with one hand and running a lint roller over her jacket with the other.
Being baby?! Ann and I cracked up and were still laughing when we pulled up in front of Thomas Jefferson Middle School.
Ann took a deep breath and opened the door. Before she got out, I felt a moment of anxiety for her. How did Ann become a middle schooler so fast? I hope she fared better on her first day than I did. On mine, I wore the same T-shirt as a popular girl who loudly pointed out that I wasn’t wearing a bra yet. Yeah, no duh. WHY would I need to wear a bra when my chest looked like a Ken doll’s? Joke’s on you! Ha-ha!
Ann looked like a little kid as she stood outside before shutting the car door. The school yard was already filled with students running around and shouting loudly. She turned back one last time and called out, “Bye!” then walked cautiously toward the front lawn.
I swore I heard my mom sniffle — and was reminded yet again that my sister was, and always would be, the baby of the family. Me on the other hand …
“How many honors classes are you taking this year?”
I rolled my eyes. “None. I’ve been demoted to all remedial classes. Actually, they’re sending me back to freshman year because of how stupid I am.”
“Well, maybe in math, but not in the others.”
I stifled a laugh. My mom annoyed me pretty much all the time, but sometimes she revealed a surprising sense of humor, even when she wasn’t trying to be funny.
“I’m taking honors English, history, and biology.” Ugh.
She nodded, satisfied. “Okay, work hard this year.” If I rolled my eyes back any farther they would plop like Ping-Pong balls into my spine.
We pulled up to the front of Bay High, and a gaggle of girls in butt-hugging denim skirts and Ugg boots walked by.
I shuddered inwardly. I guess some still showed up in their fall finest.
“Bye, Mom!” I grabbed my backpack and quickly crawled out of the car before she could ask any more questions.
“Be good!” she yelled as I walked as rapidly away from the car as possible. Honestly, “Be good”? Sometimes I wondered what in the world my mom thought my life was like when I went to school — did she think I suddenly grew tattoos on my lower back and beat up small children? Seriously. Little did she know how pathetically good I really was. No need to share that shame with my own mother, however.
I was swallowed up by a sea of students as I entered the campus. Our school was basically a brick prison surrounding a giant courtyard we called the Quad (or the Courtyard O’ Judgment). Because we have perfect weather all year round in San Diego, the school forced us to socialize outdoors, squeezing us into the Quad. I walked into the middle of the concrete abyss and squinted as I looked around for three familiar faces.
I saw the usual group of impeccably dressed girls with their giant brand-name handbags that weighed more than they did. Then there was the Asian Christian crowd who laughed uproariously at something or other. They eyed me warily, not knowing what to make of the Korean girl who didn’t listen to K-pop or go to church. The Mexican Americans made up the second largest minority group at Bay and were also über hipsters. So many fixed-gear bikes and tight jeans, it ain’t even funny.
The obligatory group of nerds took up a small space in a corner, their laptops out — undoubtedly playing video games or dismantling governments. Most of them were boys, boys who were all either abnormally small or large and wearing ironic T-shirts. Weirdly enough, the jocks took up real estate right next to the nerds. They were the loudest bunch, of course, obnoxiously throwing their heads back with laughter, wrestling each other, screeching “Are you serious?!” — making their presence felt and heard from every nook and cranny of the campus.
And where did I fit in to this delightful mixed bag of high school stereotypes? In a strange land called My Friends. We were content with each other, and honestly, we had floated through freshman year happily off the radar. We had managed to avoid any real contact with the loathsome popular crowd, but at the same time didn’t delve into the nerd realm either.
I thought of my lackluster freshman year. The school was huge and daunting, the classes hard, and there were way too many annoying people for comfort. I put in minimal effort with any extracurriculars and kept to myself. In other words, I was a nobody, and kept my head down hoping that no one would ever notice me. My only joy came in the form of my three best friends.
“Hey!”
I spun around to see David rolling up on his trusty skateboard. Tall and lanky (I swear he grew a foot over the summer), he wore a knit beanie pulled over his mop of brown hair and a pair of Ray Bans.
“Wow. Uh, nice shades,” I said.
He grinned. “I’m trying out a new look. I’m hoping it’ll discourage people from talking to me this year. Do I look standoffish?”
“No, you look douche-offish.”
He threw his head back in an exaggerated laugh, slapping his knee and everything. I pushed him in response.
“Anyway. Why are you here so early?” I asked. David was always late to school, and yet he still managed straight As. Damn slacker overachiever!
“First day of school and all. Also, my dad made me by threatening me with weekend school again.”
I snickered. “Despite your veneer of coolness, you’re still a Chinese kid.”
“HALF Chinese, thank you very much.”
“That half will always overrule the Irish half.” David’s mom was Irish, while his dad was second-generation Chinese. His parents were way cooler than mine.
David yawned. “Well, I AM really good at math. Speaking of, are you in Fifth Grade Long Division this year?”
I laughed despite the insult. It’s true, math wasn’t exactly my forte. Whatever the opposite of forte was, that’s what math was to me.
“NO. Remedial Third Grade Multiplication Tables, actually. Hey, what art classes are you taking?” Maddeningly, David was not only good at boring things like math, but fun things like art, too. In fact, I considered him to be a pretty good artist, although no way in hell would I ever tell him.
David instantly perked up. “Oh yeah! I finally got into Art II this year. Can you believe they’re letting me do actual art now?”
I was genuinely happy for him. “Awesome! Yeah, that was really lame, making you take all those exploratory classes last year. At least we got to take that one color wheel class together. I mean, we really excelled at making color wheels.”
Just then Elizabeth trotted up to us, Starbucks cup in hand. “It’s way too early for you guys to be all The Holly and David Show already.”
I looked at her long legs in slim jeans tucked into gleaming riding boots, her cashmere scarf, and her perfectly straightened dark hair. “My mom would gladly kill me to have you as her daughter instead, Liz.”
She took off her Prada sunglasses, looked me up and down, and tsked. “And who could blame her? Seriously, Holly? A sweatshirt? What happened to the cute leggings outfit I planned for you?”
“I let Ann wear it.”
Liz shook her head. “Please. Why do I even bother?”
“Are you drinking coffee? What are you, thirty?” I asked incredulously.
She made a face. “Ugh, and ruin my teeth? No, it’s a nonfat milk matcha green tea.”
David and I were silent for a second before cracking up. “Matcha WHAT?” David managed to blurt out.
“It’s a type of green tea that you whip … never mind! Why do I even bother with you cretins?” she asked, trying to keep a smile off her face. David and I lived to torment Liz, who couldn’t stand anything icky and uncouth. In other words, us. I liked to think of us as emissaries of reality to Liz, who kind of lived in a Persian princess bubble.
“So, Holly, I have a really cool extracurricular activity to add to your super busy schedule this year,” Liz said with excitement.
I looked at her suspiciously. “What?”
“Ballet!” she said with a graceful plié.
I snorted. “HA! Good one.”
She shrugged. “It was worth a try. My mom is on a rampage to get me to start dancing again. She says I need another activity to put on my future college application.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I grumbled. “My parents gave me a huge lecture this summer about taking my studies ‘seriously’ now that it’s sophomore year. Like, yeah, up to this point I thought studying was just a fun little side activity I did every day of my life.”
“I love how our parents think we have to be reminded about why we go to school,” David said. “Oh, study? Right, right.”
We were walking over to an empty lunch table when Carrie sprinted up to us. Her long reddish-blond hair flapped behind her as she just missed a collision with a group of people. Had to love Carrie. She’s been one of my best friends for ten years, which is practically the entire time I’ve been conscious. She’s always been an energetic ball of klutziness trapped inside a petite athletic build.
She joined us and in one motion wedged an apple in her mouth, waved to us excitedly, took a huge bite, and managed to blurt out, “Oh my God, Ted Levy looks so cute this year. Have you seen him?”
“Noooo,” David replied in a high voice.
Carrie punched him in the shoulder. “Not you. Man, he got hot over the summer. Grew like three inches.”
Liz made a face while taking a sip of her matcha latte, or whatever the heck it was. “I doubt a few measly inches made him that much cuter. No one at this school is even remotely hot,” she said with typical Liz disdain. When people first meet her, they often think she’s a snob. I can’t argue with that, though, because she kind of is. It’s one of the many reasons we get along.
Carrie hooted and chunks of apple flew out of her mouth. “You are so picky. You’ve got to face reality — a young Clive Owen doesn’t exist in all of San Diego, especially not at stupid BHS.”
Liz sighed. “You should never give up on your dreams.”
David made a barfing noise, then hopped back onto his board. “And on that note, I’m out. See you dorks later!” He zipped off just as the bell rang. The entire campus seemed to groan collectively.
Carrie, Liz, and I looked at each other, a familiar sadness descending. Summer was really over, and our sophomore year had officially begun.
“Well, here we go again.” I sighed and shifted my backpack. “I hope it’s not boring this year.”
“I hope Ted’s in one of my classes this year!” Carrie squealed.
“I hope I get through this year without seeing either of you in sweatpants,” Liz announced, putting her sunglasses back on.
* * *
“Here’s the first finished article of the year!”
A piece of paper fluttered down onto my desk.
Isabel Morales, the no-nonsense editor-in-chief of The Weasel Times, had just handed me the first article I would copyedit for the school paper. Tall, athletic, and always dressed in a haphazard too-busy-to-fuss-over-clothes manner, Isabel was an intimidating but down-to-earth boss.
“Cool.” I picked it up with my red pen in hand, poised to shred it to grammatically correct pieces.
This was my first year as a staff member of The Weasel Times, assigned to the post of copy editor, or glorified mistake-fixer. (Yes, The Weasel Times. Yes, our school mascot is a weasel. Yes, the school founders were apparently a bunch of masochists. Or maybe weasels were really in during the 1940s.)
I had spent the first few days of my journalism period being bored to tears while watching everyone else work on their stories, so I picked up the article with relish.
Someone’s rattling cough startled me, and I glanced to my right at the guy who would handle my edits. Ryder Yates was the designer who laid out all the pages and flowed all the text once I was finished with it. He was also the biggest stoner ever. In fact, he probably didn’t even know what class he was in right now.
After I read the first few sentences of the article, I was already bored. It was a column written by a senior named Stephanie Gonzales, all about how excited she was for the upcoming school year.
“Kill me,” I muttered as I fixed typos, incorrect spelling, and misuses of semicolons. Fifteen minutes later, I was finished. My, how time flies when life sucks.
I looked around the room and stifled a yawn. I glanced at my computer screen. Forty minutes of class to go. Good God.
I needed to kill some time. I looked through the ne
wspaper’s folders on my computer. Sure enough, there was Stephanie’s lame excuse for a column. It wouldn’t be half bad with a few adjustments. I printed out a fresh copy, got out my red pen again, and made a few tiny changes:
I giggled as I signed my name with a flourish. How amazing would Stephanie Gonzales be if she wrote that?
The bell rang. Thank God. I shoved my fake article into my backpack and tossed the copyedited column into Stoner Yates’s folder as I flew out the door. Maybe journalism wouldn’t be too bad after all.
Swish, swish, swish.
I loved the sound of the wind whipping past my ears when I zoomed through town on my bike.
Because I’m fifteen, I could technically get my driving permit now. But to be honest, I preferred to ride my bike all over San Diego. It was one of the few times when I felt totally in control and at peace, and one of the only things I was allowed to do without my parents having a total freak-out.
I lived in Pacific Beach and was headed home. I was considering swinging by Carrie’s place (she lives like four blocks away from me), when I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket.
Looking down at the screen, I saw a number that I didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” I answered suspiciously, pulling off to the side of the road.
“Is this Holly?” a female voice demanded.
“Um, yes. Who is this?”
“It’s Isabel.”
“Oh! Hey, Izzie.”
“Holly, we’ve got a huge problem. I just got the first batch of the new issue in —”
“Oh man, did I miss a typo?” I asked, dismayed.
“No, you did not miss a typo! You published a column!”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Stephanie’s column that you replaced with your own. You are in such huge trouble, I can’t even tell you!”
My heart skipped a beat and I felt light-headed. There was no way….
“Holly, do you hear me? This is serious.”
I could barely squeak out, “There’s been a mistake. That wasn’t a real article — I was just playing around.”
“Just playing around?!” Her voice screeched so loudly that I had to move the phone away from my ear. “Good job, genius! It’s been published! It’s already been sent to all the homerooms for distribution!”
