by Maurene Goo
She rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, they like the idea of me. I’m like, another Barbie doll for the Barbie doll parade.”
I giggled. “Yeah, but they’re jealous of you, too.”
Frowning at her gourmet cheese, Liz said, “Well, I don’t want friends like that.”
Carrie threw an arm around her with gusto and declared, “We’re not like that! Holly and I are the reject Barbie dolls that never made it out of the factory!”
Now it was Liz’s turn to laugh. But I was kind of embarrassed by Carrie’s unabashed openness with the glamorous new girl.
It took a few weeks for me to warm up to her. I kept thinking that she must have been put up to this by the other girls. And Liz was someone you had to get used to — she was definitely way more mature than Carrie and me. We had just stopped playing with our My Little Ponies a couple summers ago and felt like giant babies next to Liz, who already wore nail polish and lacy Victoria’s Secret bras. She also had this way of talking that made her sound way older — like a lady in a soap opera.
But we soon discovered that she had little patience for all the jerks at school — just like us. And I also learned that she was the only other person who could rival me in the size of her book collection. (Although she was way more of a Tolkien geek than I was — I personally can’t stand reading about those dorky hobbits.)
So Liz slowly became close friends with us — right around the same time that David started hanging out with us, too. David and I had been lab partners for dissecting frogs, and we bonded the day he made the first incision into the frog, only to have disgusting yellow liquid squirt in his face. At first wary of hanging out with three girls, he slowly started spending more lunches with us until we became the inseparable foursome you know and love today.
Initially, the Barbie dolls were so miffed by Liz’s cold shoulder that they tried to make her miserable by spreading all sorts of mean rumors (one saying that she had a mustache!!! LOL). Liz, however, couldn’t care less. Or at least that’s what I thought at the time. The rumors eventually faded, and the Barbies gave up trying to ruin her life.
Did she still have something to prove to those girls? Because she would be competing against some of them for Homecoming Queen.
I decided then that we’d have to be supportive of Liz — she had been nothing but the most loyal of friends for the past three years.
Speaking of, the hubbub over Homecoming was in full effect in the journalism room. I guess, in light of the newly revealed Homecoming dance location, there was some gleeful complaining to be had. Nothing riles up the Weasel Times staff like boneheaded moves by the student government.
Suddenly, Isabel ran over to me frantically crying, “Holly! Stop everything!”
I stilled my hands over the keyboard. I was playing online Scrabble.
“Why? What’s up?”
“You need to cover the Homecoming dance!”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“We need someone to cover the dance, and you’re that person. We got you two tickets, so you and a date get to go for FREE. Isn’t that great?”
I stared at her for a second, then realized she was serious.
“NO, THAT IS NOT GREAT! I don’t want to go!”
She looked momentarily startled. “Well, too bad.”
To which I uttered the most amazing comeback: “You can’t make me.”
Isabel placed her hands on her hips and shot me a bossy upperclassman glare. “Yes, I can! You’re covering the dance!”
“Why do we even need to cover the dance? It’s not like, a freaking G8 Summit!” I shouted. “What could possibly happen there that would be worth reporting?” The rest of the journalism staff was now watching us curiously.
“Holly! Don’t question me. We’re bashing this dance location and we need a staff member there to add legitimacy to our criticism. I know you don’t already have plans to go for fun, like most of the other writers here, so I think you’re the best choice to go.”
How rude.
“So you’re going. End of discussion.”
Great, just great. Now I had to go to the stupid dance and find a stupid damn date.
Ugh, what are we listening to, Mom?”
“Christian music.”
“WHY? You don’t go to church anymore!”
“You don’t have to go to church to listen to this! It’s beautiful.”
“I want to die.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. This is my car and we’ll listen to my music. Not your loud girls-screaming music.”
That’s how my mother described Best Coast. Nice.
“Thank God we’re almost to the mall. Hallelujah, Mom!” I raised my arms to the sky.
She threw me a warning look as we pulled into the Fashion Valley parking lot. We were at the mall to buy some jeans for me and some kitchen products for her. Luckily, Ann was at a friend’s house for the day. Shopping with my sister is like shopping with an overheated beast who will at any moment shred clothing racks with her teeth and start screaming that she wants to go home.
We headed straight to the Gap where I knew my trusty dark-wash, straight-leg jeans could be found. Only the best for this fashionista. As I walked out with shopping bag in hand, I noticed a store with party dresses in its window across the way. Dread filled my stomach. Not only did I not want to think about the dance, but I hadn’t brought it up with my mom yet either. This seemed like a better time than most, without the audience of my sister and with witnesses around in case my mom tried to kill me.
“Mom, um, I think I have to buy a dress.”
My mom scoffed (the Korean Mom Disdainful Scoff — a key element in the fine Asian art of undermining your children’s self-esteem). “A dress? Why would you need a dress?”
Even my mom thought I was a loser. I took a deep breath. “Because I have to go to the Homecoming dance.”
“Mwoya?!” she said in her native tongue — basically the equivalent of WTF?
“The school dance. I have to go for the newspaper.”
Mom shook her head. “They cannot force you. So you do not have to go.”
Funny, that’s exactly the point I tried to make to Isabel. But coming from my mother, all of a sudden I felt the urge to disagree.
“I have to go.”
She pursed her lips and wouldn’t make eye contact with me — the highest form of dismissal. “No, you can’t. I won’t allow it.”
With those words, a familiar rage reared its ugly head. Hearing my mother say “I won’t allow it” gave me flashbacks to all the things I wasn’t allowed to do growing up: attend sleepovers, experiment with nail polish, ride the bus, dye my hair, wear heels (well, I wouldn’t do that anyway — but it’s the principle!).
“Why not?” I whined.
My mom looked around and hissed out of the corner of her mouth, “Keep your voice down! You’re not going to a dance. It’s unnecessary, and it’s only something that poorly raised American kids do. You should be concentrating on your schoolwork, not stuff like that. Nonsense like that is why American students are behind the rest of the world in academics.”
“Mom, I hate to break it to you, but I’M one of those ‘American students.’ As much as you hate to admit it, I am NOT Korean.”
My mom stopped in her tracks and gave me her Death Stare. The stare that made my soul shrivel up into a scared little worm. A shriveled-up worm that pooped its pants.
“You think you’re American?” she asked in an eerily calm voice.
I looked down at my feet and muttered, “Yes.”
Her icy words stabbed into the top of my head. “Well, then. I guess I am not your mother.”
All I could do was follow her meekly back to the car. A part of me was angry at her for being so ridiculously strict, and the other part of me felt guilty for some reason. I was American, you know? Well, Korean American anyway. Why couldn’t my mom just accept that?
When we got home, my mom gave me the silent treatment, so I hid out in my ro
om. I plopped down onto my bed and sighed, and decided to seek solace in my hidden DVD stash.
I crawled under the bed and took out a box filled with DVDs I’d collected over the years. Movies like The Notebook, Pretty in Pink, 27 Dresses, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Chocolat, and Roman Holiday.
Yes, it’s true.
I AM OBSESSED WITH ROMANTIC MOVIES.
Oh, the shame. I’ve had to keep it a secret because if Carrie and David ever found out, I’d be ridiculed to death. I shivered just thinking about it.
I took out Pretty in Pink and popped it into my laptop. The plot of this movie is ludicrous — Molly Ringwald’s “alternative” character (the ’80s equivalent of an American Apparel–sporting hipster girl) falls for this rich guy from “the other side of town” (the ’80s equivalent of a douche bag. Or did the ’80s invent douche bags?). They face adversity, yada yada, and wind up, in the end, kissing at the dance.
Even this outcast girl with her sad-sap dad was allowed to go to the dance. Albeit in the most hideous handmade pink dress ever.
I felt like I lived in a totally different world from Molly Ringwald’s character. And from everyone else in reality.
The simplest things for most of the people I knew, like going to a school dance, were always such a torturous trial with my parents. Why couldn’t I just say, “Hi, Mom and Dad, guess what? I get to go to the Homecoming dance!” And then my alternate-reality mom would clasp her hands together and say, “Oh, my little girl is growing up! We’ll have to get you a beautiful new dress!” and wipe a tear from her eye. Then my alternate-reality dad would beam proudly and say, “Who’s the lucky boy who gets to take you to this shindig?” with a pipe in hand.
Okay, well, apparently my alternate-reality parents also lived in the 1950s.
My Korean-reality parents: Mom freaks out and thinks only devil children go to dances. Because she’s secretly afraid I might get pregnant dancing with a boy. I wonder if my mother really knows how babies are made? Dad is totally disinterested, doesn’t really understand what a “dance” is, and when he finds out I have to purchase things to attend will be adamantly against it. This is the man who made me use sticky rice as glue for art projects because he found Elmer’s glue to be an unnecessary extravagance.
There was no way around it. My mother could not be reasoned with, and my dad would definitely not take my side on this one.
I’d have to sneak my way to the Homecoming dance.
I called up David.
“What up, Hizzle.”
“Hey. So um, you have to help me.”
“Do I have to?”
I resisted the urge to stick my arm into the phone to punch his face on the other line. “YES, butt-wipe.”
“Well, since you’re asking so nicely …”
“I have to figure out a way to go to the Homecoming dance without my parents knowing.”
I swear I heard David choke on something.
“David? David! Come on, get with the program!”
He sputtered, “Get with the program? What are you, some ’80s PE coach?”
“No! Now help me get to the dance!”
“Okay, the first, most like, glaring question being: WHY are you going to the dance? Did someone ask you?” he asked incredulously.
I stared at the phone for a few seconds, contemplating hanging up on him.
“Hellooo, Holly?”
“Mm hm. I’m just wondering, why are we friends again?”
“Because I am a handsome addition to your group of otherwise hideous friends.”
I sighed. “I’m going to the dance because The Weasel Times is sending me to cover it, like it’s some huge event that affects the world, or something.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, hello. Why the hell else would I go to this thing?”
“So you don’t have a date?”
“Ew, no. But anyway, how am I going to get a dress, get ready for the dance undercover, and stay out that late without my mom calling the SWAT team to come after me?”
“Hm. That’s a tough one. Well, the dress is easy. Doesn’t Liz have a billion of those things?”
“Um, yeah, but Liz and I aren’t exactly the same size. She has these things called boobs that make it difficult for me to fit into her stuff.”
A sound of disgust came from David’s end. “Okay, if you want to keep this conversation going you need to not bring up Liz’s boobs.”
By the end of the phone call we had devised a plan. Both David and I had some money saved from New Year’s (we may get screwed in other ways, but on New Year’s Asian kids make bank), and he kindly offered to pool some money to help buy a dress. In return, I told him he could come as my date. As long as he knew it wasn’t a date.
“Wow, thanks. So romantic. Just like I’ve always dreamed,” he said sarcastically.
“So do you have to lie to your parents?” I asked hopefully.
I could almost see David’s shrug over the phone. “Nah. They don’t care.”
“That’s so unfair,” I protested. “Why aren’t your parents as uptight as mine?”
“Um, because my dad is second-generation Chinese, not crazy Korean. And because I am a boy, and therefore worthier of responsibilities and privileges.”
“Oh, right. I forgot about the whole boy thing. As a girl I must be a good little student and do my math homework at my parents’ side every night of the week. Otherwise, other Korean people will think I am a ho.”
We both started cracking up. I couldn’t be a ho even if I was decked out in fishnets on Hollywood Boulevard. People would probably just offer me a ride home to my mommy.
“Okay, okay, so on Homecoming night I’ll be ‘working on a journalism deadline at school.’ My parents can only call me on my cell phone, then.”
“But don’t your parents know when the dance is? Isn’t this all highly suspicious?”
I snorted. “Please. They don’t know the date of the dance. Who do you think I am? I was twenty steps ahead of them from step one.”
“Okay, whatever that means.”
My plans were set. I would buy a dress, hide it at Liz’s, pretend to ride my bike to school, get ready at Liz’s, then go to the dance, and arrive at home by 11:00 P.M. wearing my jeans again.
This would be the most rebellious thing that Holly Kim had ever done. Yes, lying to my parents was the most awful thing I could do. Lying to my mother was … I shuddered. Inconceivable.
Just then my mom popped her head into my room. “Are you still SULKING?” she asked.
Always the peacemaker. “I’m not sulking,” I replied moodily.
“Don’t give me that look. Anyway, it’s time for dinner, so get up and try to be helpful,” she barked before leaving. She left the door wide open, knowing full well how much that infuriated me.
I glared at her retreating back. Then I grabbed my cell phone to make one last call.
“Hey, Liz? So do you finally want to take me shopping?”
The wheels were in motion.
These buttons are fugly.”
I hit David in the arm. “Shh! Carrie designed them.”
“So? It doesn’t mean they’re not fug.”
I resisted the urge to giggle. It was true, the buttons Carrie made for Liz’s Homecoming campaign were hideous: brown with huge bubbly, orange letters that spelled out LIZ IZ QUEEN. But she had a button-making machine at home (one of many weird contraptions Carrie had in her arsenal of crafty things) and we were trying to be supportive.
We brought the buttons because the Homecoming Court nominations were being announced at lunch. I thought Carrie had been premature by making them because we didn’t know if Liz would be nominated, but she insisted that she would be. I looked at them in their brown-and-orange glory and bit my tongue.
Spotting Liz and Carrie across the Quad, I waved them over. David quickly hid the buttons in his backpack.
“Are you nervous?” I asked Liz. She was wringing her hands; and her hair, which w
as usually perfect, looked a little disheveled.
“No! Yes. I mean, kinda!” she said hysterically. Whoa, this flustered state was very un-Liz-like.
Carrie patted her arm. “Don’t worry, Liz. You got this in the bag!”
David and I exchanged looks that said otherwise.
A crackle on the PA system shut everyone up.
“Yo, yo, yo, BHS, it’s that moment you’ve all been waiting for! The Homecoming Court announcements! Who’s going to be BHS royalty this fall?”
I refrained from gagging. Our student body president, Martin Wong, ran through the male nominees first — every single one of the guys was a jock. Typical.
“Yeah, yeah, Matthew Reynolds and company, blah blah,” Carrie said. “Let’s move on!”
“And now for the lovely ladies of the BHS Homecoming Court!” An obnoxious chuckle came through the speakers. Martin was such a dork.
Liz clasped my hands and then Carrie’s. I smiled nervously at her. “Our Homecoming Court princesses and potential queen are, in alphabetical order … Jessamin Aya!” One corner of the Quad erupted in noise. I craned my neck to see the hipsters hugging Jessamin, who tried to look bored.
“Lola Chang!” The Asian Christian group cheered, the girls giggling and jumping around Lola.
“Candace Ferrera!” A huge roar went up in the middle of the Quad where Candace and the Barbies were hanging out. I glanced at Carrie and David, who were looking as anxious as I felt.
“Lauren Muklashy!” Candace’s group cheered again, though not as loudly. Lauren was merely second fiddle to Candace.
There was only one spot left on the Homecoming Court. I got ready to console Liz. I really hoped she wouldn’t take it too hard — I still found this entire thing so dumb.
“And last, but definitely not least … Elizabeth Rezapour!”
Carrie whooped, jumping up and down and hugging Liz, whose eyes were wide with disbelief. David stood there with his mouth open, and I smiled widely before noticing Candace’s group openly glaring at us, their heavily lined eyes boring holes into Liz’s head.
I tried to ignore the creepy Barbie dolls. “Liz, you did it!” It actually happened!
