“He seems nice. I’m sure my Japanese will get better just by talking with him. And maybe it’ll get so good that I won’t have to take that morning class, so the All-Star schedule won’t even be a problem.”
Skye’s mom loaded the dishwasher in silence, plate after plate, glass after glass.
“Mom, did you hear what I said?”
Her mom turned, dried her hands, and leaned against the counter. “Yes, talking with your relatives in Japanese will help, honey. But I just don’t think it’ll be enough.” She walked over to the calendar and lifted the page. “You’ve only got a little over six weeks to get ready for the placement exams.”
Skye didn’t need to look at the calendar to know she had exactly forty-three days left.
She looked outside. The sky was still light. A perfect time to practice some backyard goals. Instead she went into the computer room, pulled out the hated list of the next hundred kanji she was supposed to memorize, and flopped into the chair. This was going to take a while.
8
Hiroshi
Hiroshi awoke as soon as he hit the floor.
Where am I?
He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, then opened his eyes again. Instead of his futon, he saw sheets and blankets tangled at the foot of a high wooden bed. A photograph of Grandfather and Hiroshi holding a trophy was propped on the nightstand—the picture from last year’s rokkaku battle. He felt the scratchy carpet underneath him instead of cool tatami mats that smelled of sweet grass. Of course—he was on the floor of his new American bedroom.
He heard a soft knock on his door.
“Come in.”
Mother peered into the room. “Hiroshi, are you all right?” she asked, her brow furrowed.
He climbed back onto the bed and rubbed his shoulder. “I’m fine. I miss my futon.” After a week in America, he still wasn’t used to sleeping on such a high bed.
“There’s not enough room in the closet to store a futon during the day.” Mother came and sat next to him. “Things are different here, but we’ll get used to it. It takes time.” Hiroshi stared at the carpet. “Now that you’re starting school, you’ll make friends. And Sorano will be there to help.”
School. The familiar knot clenched his gut again. “I don’t know enough English. How can I make friends if I can’t even talk to anyone?”
“You can practice what you learned in your English classes back home. Soon enough you’ll have too many friends to count.”
“I guess.” Hiroshi thought about his classmates in Japan. They’d be starting sixth grade when the academic year began in April. Not Hiroshi. He was stuck in fifth grade again for another four months.
“Are you hungry? I’ve made your favorite breakfast.” Even the thought of fish and rice didn’t cheer him up. Mother smiled and rose from the bed. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
Hiroshi opened his closet door. He never thought he’d miss his school uniform, but at least getting dressed for school had always been easy. What did American kids wear to school? He should have asked Sorano. He chose a pair of jeans; Americans on television always wore jeans. And a red polo shirt—red would bring him luck. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and followed the scent of fish downstairs for breakfast.
Hiroshi stood in front of his new class, head down and cheeks burning. Mrs. Garcia spoke to the other fifth graders. Hiroshi didn’t understand a thing she said. He wondered what Miss Dillon, his English teacher in Japan, would think. Mrs. Garcia smiled and pointed to him with an open hand. The only word he understood came out as “huh-RO-shee,” with that hard American r sound.
He jumped when the class chorused, “Hello!” but at least he knew this word, too. He automatically bowed to his classmates. A few snickers broke the silence.
That’s right—no bowing. Next time he would remember.
Mrs. Garcia spoke again to the students, frowning this time. They leaned over their desks and began writing in their notebooks. Hiroshi followed Mrs. Garcia to his desk, and he slid into his seat. She put her hand on Sorano’s shoulder, who sat across the aisle from him. Mrs. Garcia said something to her, patted her shoulder, and walked away.
At least Hiroshi knew someone in this school. It didn’t even matter that she was a girl and his cousin. In the days since he’d arrived in America, he’d asked Sorano every question he could think of about school. But now that he was here, he had questions he hadn’t known to ask before. Why didn’t the students wear uniforms? Why didn’t they start the day with a class meeting? Why was everyone wearing their outdoor shoes inside? And the English class he was supposed to go to—when would that happen? Maybe Sorano wouldn’t mind asking the teacher for him.
He leaned across the aisle and whispered her name. When she turned, he asked about his English class. A boy with spiky yellow hair sitting in front of Sorano turned around. He looked with wide eyes from Sorano to Hiroshi.
Sorano glared at the spiky-haired boy, then hissed something at him. He smirked and started whispering to the girl sitting in front of him. Hiroshi couldn’t help but feel like he had done something wrong. The boy seemed to be making fun of Sorano, but Hiroshi couldn’t figure out why. Or was the boy making fun of him?
Sorano stood up. She passed by Hiroshi’s desk and whispered in Japanese, “Maybe you should call me Skye here at school.” Then she headed off toward the pencil sharpener. Hiroshi sat staring at the stack of school supplies on his desk. How was he supposed to remember to call Sorano by a different name? Had the spiky-haired boy been laughing at her name?
Sorano—Skye—slipped back into her seat just as the classroom television came on. Two students appeared on the screen. It looked like they were announcing the news, except they didn’t bow first. They held up a weather forecast sign, with the high temperature of forty-five degrees. That seemed really hot, but Hiroshi knew that Fahrenheit was different from Celsius. When a picture of the American flag appeared on the screen, everyone stood, put their hand on their chest, and started reciting something in a monotone. Hiroshi had no idea what they were saying. When it was over, Hiroshi was the only one left standing. He quickly sat back down, hoping no one had noticed.
Mrs. Garcia began the math lesson. Hiroshi had always hated math. Not that it was difficult—just boring. There was always only one right answer. Not like art. In art there were a million ways to do things. Hiroshi remembered watching Grandfather paint kites for customers. He’d painted whatever they asked for, but he always added a personal touch, too. Like the time when Yamamoto-san asked for a carp, and Grandfather had painted the scales in a rainbow of colors. No one ever minded when Grandfather did his own thing, because his own thing was what made the kites so special.
Hiroshi almost jumped when he realized Mrs. Garcia was standing next to his desk, handing him a worksheet covered with numbers. At least he knew what to do—he didn’t need English to do equations.
“Thank you, Teacher,” he said. The English words felt strange on his tongue.
Mrs. Garcia smiled but shook her head. She patted her chest with her hand. “MI-sses Gar-SEE-uh.” Hiroshi nodded. He already knew her name; what was she doing?
Another student raised his hand. “Mrs. Garcia?”
“Yes?” She smiled and headed over to the boy’s desk. She didn’t seem to mind being called by her name. Hiroshi couldn’t imagine calling her Mrs. Garcia; it was disrespectful—too familiar. Besides, how was he supposed to pronounce a name with an American r in it?
He started to write his name in kanji characters on the worksheet, then erased it and wrote it in English. He had almost worked his way to the bottom of the page when another teacher entered the room. Mrs. Garcia waved the teacher over to her desk, where they spoke in low voices.
“Skye? Hiroshi?” Mrs. Garcia beckoned.
Hiroshi glanced at Sor—Skye. She stood and motioned for him to follow. When they reached the front of the room, Mrs. Garcia said something to Skye, who then whispered to Hiroshi in Japanese: “This is your ESL teach
er—English as a second language. His name’s Mr. Jacobs.”
Skye folded her arms and took a step back. The class had fallen silent. Mr. Jacobs spoke to Skye, then she translated in a voice even softer than before. “You have ESL class every morning from nine to ten thirty. Then you come back here for the rest of the day.” She looked from Mrs. Garcia back to Mr. Jacobs, as if to ask if that would be all.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Garcia said. Skye hurried back to her seat, leaving Hiroshi standing there.
Hiroshi knew she was embarrassed. Was it her mistakes in Japanese? He didn’t care about that. He knew he was about to make even more mistakes in English.
“Hello, Hiroshi.” Mr. Jacobs grinned and offered Hiroshi his hand. He decided Mr. Jacobs looked too young to be a teacher.
“Hello, Teacher.” Hiroshi bowed, then remembered to shake Mr. Jacobs’s hand.
“Come with me.” Mr. Jacobs grinned and headed for the door.
Hiroshi hoped the other ESL students wouldn’t be too far ahead of him in English. What if he couldn’t keep up? Outside the classroom five other students waited in the hallway. As they followed Mr. Jacobs down the hall, some whispered to each other in English, and others in a language that sounded like Spanish. Were they whispering about him?
Mr. Jacobs strode into the ESL room. “Let’s take our seats, everyone.”
Hiroshi noticed the artwork right away—drawings, paintings, collages. They filled one wall from ceiling to floor. Hiroshi smiled. Another wall had a chalkboard surrounded by groups of index cards with English words and pictures.
The students sat at a U-shaped table, and Hiroshi took the last empty place at the end. Mr. Jacobs gave him a notebook and a marker, then pointed to a blank box on the cover.
“Name.” He smiled. “Your name goes here.” As soon as Hiroshi printed his name on the front, Mr. Jacobs introduced him to the group. The other students took turns saying their strange names—not one was Japanese. He’d never remember them all.
Mr. Jacobs gave every student five cards, each with a picture. Hiroshi looked at his cards: a shirt, a jacket, a pair of shoes, a hat, and a scarf. Is this some kind of joke? This is baby work. But Mr. Jacobs wasn’t laughing. He began writing a list of clothing items on the board—all words Hiroshi recognized from Miss Dillon’s English classes way back in first grade.
Hiroshi watched as the boy next to him wrote his name: Ravi. The boy copied down the English words. Hiroshi sighed and picked up his pencil. At least his classmates in Japan couldn’t see him now.
Mr. Jacobs clapped once and said something to the girl sitting closest to the board. The girl nodded and smiled, then held up a card with a picture of a pair of blue trousers. She said, “I am wearing blue pants.”
Hiroshi’s eyes widened. How embarrassing for the girl; she had just told the teacher she was wearing underwear. What would Mr. Jacobs say?
“Good, Maria.” Mr. Jacobs nodded.
What? Hiroshi stifled a giggle. Miss Dillon had taught them that pants meant underwear. But Miss Dillon was English, not American, and she had said Americans sometimes have different ways of saying things. Hiroshi looked at his cards again. At least he didn’t have a picture of trousers.
When Maria finished with her cards, Mr. Jacobs went on to the next student. A wave of panic rolled through Hiroshi. Four more students, and then it would be his turn. Hiroshi knew the words to say, but what if his pronunciation was off? The other students’
English sounded perfect. He studied his cards again. His hands began to tremble, so he spread his cards on the table and stuck his hands under his legs. He recited his lines over and over in his head until Mr. Jacobs said, “Hiroshi, what are you wearing?”
Hiroshi swallowed. He pointed to the card with the picture of a shirt and said, “I wear a shirt.”
“Excellent, Hiroshi. What color is your shirt?”
Hiroshi relaxed his shoulders. The teacher was pleased with his answer! “Red. My shirt is red.”
Mr. Jacobs nodded. “What else are you wearing?”
Hiroshi went through the other cards until he got to the last one. He pointed to the card with shoes. “I am wearing shoe.”
Mr. Jacobs peeked under the table. “And what color are your shoes, Hiroshi?”
Shoes. He should have said shoes, not shoe. How could he have been so stupid? He stared at the card. “My shoes are brown.” He made sure to say shoes a bit louder than the other words, hoping Mr. Jacobs would hear that he had corrected himself.
Mr. Jacobs held out his hand in front of Hiroshi, palm up. Keeping his chin down, Hiroshi raised his eyes and saw Mr. Jacobs’ wide smile. Hiroshi lifted his head. He didn’t know what to do. Was he supposed to give the teacher something?
“Give me five, Hiroshi. Nice job with shoes!” Hiroshi knew what this meant from watching American movies. But giving five to a teacher? He snuck a glance at the other students, who were all grinning. Hiroshi raised his hand, then hesitated.
“Go on,” said Mr. Jacobs. “Don’t leave me hanging!” He chuckled. Hiroshi slapped his hand down on Mr. Jacob’s palm. He tried to imagine what his fifth-grade teacher from last year would say—serious Motomashi Sensei with a face like a raisin. He bit the inside of his cheek to cut off the laughter that threatened to escape; he didn’t want Mr. Jacobs to think he was laughing at him.
But a moment later Hiroshi’s urge to laugh fizzled when Mr. Jacobs handed out books. He said something to the class, and Hiroshi recognized the word “homework.” He stared at the cover—a picture of a boy pulling on his socks under the title Tim Gets Dressed. There couldn’t be more than ten pages in the whole story. Hiroshi opened the cover and scanned the first page: “Tim puts on a shirt.” Now the second page: “Tim puts on his socks.” It wasn’t even a real story; it was a book for first graders, not fifth graders. He slid it into his notebook. Speaking English was difficult, but reading in English was easy. When he could speak more English, he would ask Mr. Jacobs for a harder book. One with chapters and no pictures.
Next Mr. Jacobs handed out blank sheets of paper and colored pencils. He explained something to the group, but Hiroshi didn’t understand. The other students began sketching. Hiroshi snuck a sideways glance at Ravi, who was bent over his paper drawing two careful circles. When Ravi lifted his head, Hiroshi’s eyes darted back to his own paper; he didn’t want Ravi to think he was trying to copy him.
But Ravi leaned over. “I draw a car,” he whispered. Ravi moved his pencil across the paper, and the outline of a race car appeared. Was the assignment to a draw a car? Which kind of car? Any car?
Hiroshi was about to sneak a look at another student’s paper when Mr. Jacobs pulled up a chair and sat across from him with a sheet of paper. Mr. Jacobs drew a basketball and hoop, then held up the paper. “I like basketball.” Then he tapped Hiroshi’s blank paper. “What do you like, Hiroshi?”
Hiroshi nodded; he knew exactly what he would draw. He picked up three pencils—different shades of green—and began with the grassy hill. Then he sketched himself, Grandfather, and finally the dragon kite.
“This is you.” Mr. Jacobs tapped the figure of Hiroshi in the picture. He slid his finger over to Grandfather. “Who is this?”
Hiroshi nodded. “My grandfather.”
Mr. Jacobs pointed to the grassy hill. “Where is this place?”
Hiroshi’s throat tightened. “My village. In Japan.”
“You like kites?”
Hiroshi looked at the drawing. “Yes.” He nodded. He thought of the exact words he wanted to say, so he wouldn’t make a mistake: “I like kites.”
But he wanted to say so much more. He wanted to tell Mr. Jacobs about the kite battle he had to miss because he’d moved to America. He wanted to explain that the dragon kite was the first one he had made himself. Well, mostly himself—Grandfather had helped a little. He wanted to say that Grandfather was a rokkaku champion and Hiroshi’s best friend. And that he hoped Grandfather would get better soon so they could keep flyi
ng kites together.
“Yes,” Hiroshi repeated. “I like kites.”
9
Skye
What a jerk. Kevin Donovan had never been Skye’s favorite person, but she’d always felt kind of sorry for him. He didn’t really have any friends, and now Skye could see why. Ever since she had translated something for Hiroshi that morning, Kevin wouldn’t leave her alone. “Ching chang wong wang!” He snickered, obviously pleased with himself.
“That doesn’t even mean anything.” Skye rolled her eyes, hoping no one else had heard him. As luck would have it, she had to peer around his big head to copy the reading homework from the board. But whenever she tried to look, he blocked her way.
Skye sighed. “Cut it out. I can’t see the board.”
“Why don’t you ask your Chinese boyfriend what it says when he gets back from ESL class?”
“He’s not my boyfriend; he’s my cousin. And he’s not Chinese, duh. He’s Japanese.”
“Whatever.”
Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him.
Mrs. Garcia clapped once. “Class, clear your desks for the science quiz.” Skye moaned along with the others. But at least Kevin wouldn’t be allowed to speak during the quiz—that was a bonus.
Kevin turned around again. “So are you Japanese, or what?”
Honestly. Doesn’t he ever take a bullying break?
“Why don’t you just leave her alone, Kevin?” Amber sat two seats in front of Kevin. If she’d heard the whole conversation, Skye wondered who else had been listening. Skye shot her a grateful smile, and Amber grinned back. “If you must know, Skye is Japanese. She was probably speaking Japanese to the new kid.” Amber turned back around.
Skye probably should have been grateful that Amber had defended her. But she’d called Skye “Japanese.” Okay, so Skye’s dad was Japanese, and she spoke the language—kind of. But that didn’t make her Japanese. She’d never even been to Japan.
Mrs. Garcia walked down the rows, handing out science quizzes. Diagrams of plant and animal cells—gross. They all looked like Kevin Donovan’s head.
Flying the Dragon Page 4
