by Lisa Yee
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
June 7
June 9
June 10
June 14
June 18
June 21
June 22
June 24
June 25
June 26
June 27
June 30
July 1
July 2
July 5
July 6
July 7
July 13
July 14
July 16
July 19
July 22
July 23
July 24
July 25
July 29
July 30
August 3
August 4
August 6
August 8
August 9
August 10
August 13
August 14
August 15
August 16
August 17
August 18
August 23
August 26
August 27
August 28
August 30
August 31
August 31, continued
September 1
September 2
September 3
Teaser for Stanford Wong Flunks Big-Time
About the Author
Also Available
Copyright
I have been accused of being anal retentive, an overachiever, and a compulsive perfectionist, like those are bad things. My disposition probably has a lot to do with the fact that I am technically a genius. Unfortunately, this label seems to precede me wherever I go.
This afternoon I sped over to Maddie’s house on my bike. I was anxious to escape the hysteria the last day of high school seems to inspire. Kids flinging their arms around each other. Teachers grinning with wild looks in their eyes. Yearbooks flying back and forth in an autographing frenzy.
As I emptied the contents of my locker into my briefcase earlier in the day, I had been optimistic that someone might ask me to sign their Rocketeer. In anticipation of this, I had drafted a truly original inscription — one that would showcase my sense of humor, something I have had little chance to share with my fellow students. I would start with Quantum materiae materietur marmota monax si marmota monax materiam possit materiari? Which, translated from Latin, means “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” And then, here’s the really funny part, I’d close with Vah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur. In English, that’s “Oh! Was I speaking Latin again? Silly me. Sometimes it just sort of slips out.” I would then finish with a flourish, “Signed, Millicent L. Min.”
Eagerly, I waited for someone to stop long enough to hand me their Rocketeer. But the kids and their cliques just swarmed past without even slowing down. After a while it became clear I was not on the top (or even the bottom) of anyone’s autograph list. So I wrote my Latin inscription in my own yearbook and then bid John F. Kennedy High good-bye until the next school year.
As I rounded the corner on my bike, I relaxed at the familiar sight of Maddie’s house, a tidy white bungalow with green shutters and a bright red door. Despite the front-porch ceiling fan chugging away in a valiant effort to ward off the heat, my grandmother did not appear to be home. With nothing better to do, I camped out on the steps and reread my Rocketeer.
All the students look so much older than me. Yet that’s to be expected. It’s hard to believe I will be a senior next year. When I look back at my childhood, it doesn’t seem like so long ago. Maddie swears it’s because childhood is a state of mind. My mother insists that it’s because I am only eleven years old. Whatever.
By the time Maddie arrived in her beat-up Dodge Dart, I had found twenty-three typos in the yearbook. Four of those were misspellings of my name.
“Have you been here since school got out?” Maddie asked as she leapt out of the car. She doesn’t act old, and no one has had the nerve to tell her she’s a senior citizen. Without waiting for my reply, Maddie wrestled with a dragon in the backseat. It was about half my size and carved out of wood. “I can’t believe you’re still here,” she said as she signaled for help. “School must have ended hours ago.”
“Of course I’m still here,” I told her as I held the car door open. I decided not to ask what the dragon was for. With Maddie, sometimes it’s better not to know. “Where else would I be?”
Maddie smiled when she saw my Rocketeer. “How many times are you in it this year, Millie?” she asked.
“Twelve,” I answered proudly.
“That’s great. Did a lot of kids sign your yearbook?”
I don’t really hang around with a lot of other students. I’m more of what you might call “an independent.” Still, I did manage to get one, and almost two, autographs at lunch today.
Tommy Loescher is the Chess Club President and had prided himself on never having lost a match, until I joined the club. “Sure, I’ll sign your yearbook, Millicent,” Tommy said as a grin crossed his face. “Just let me finish my sandwich first.”
His friends snickered as he chewed slowly. I wasn’t sure what was so funny, but not wanting to appear rude, I laughed along with them. Then, wouldn’t you know it, the bell rang before Tommy even had a chance to get out a pen.
“Oops,” he said, popping what was left of his sandwich into his mouth, “gotta run! Sorry, Millicent. Maybe next year.”
“But you’re graduating …” I yelled as I watched him and his pals disappear into the crowd. Luckily, at that very moment Amy Drew crossed my path. Amy Drew is this year’s valedictorian. I admire her immensely, and she has never failed to return my hellos in the hallway. Here is what she wrote:
I spent my entire Honors English class analyzing her message. She could have been referring to the hot summer months Rancho Rosetta is famous for when she wrote “stay cool!” Or, and I like to think this is what she meant, Amy could have used the word “cool” as in “she’s so cool.” Thereby implying that I am one of the cool people, and that I should remain so.
Whatever her meaning, I am honored that Amy Drew signed my copy of the Rocketeer. I’ve already begun practicing my signature in anticipation of next year. Maybe when I’m valedictorian my autograph will be more sought after.
“Did you get any of the other students to sign your book?” Maddie pressed me again.
“Well … guess what?” I exclaimed. “I’ll bet I am the only one lucky enough to get every teacher’s signature!” My favorite was from Coach Frank. Despite his severe crew cut, he has a wild sense of humor. Coach had written:
Maddie laughed when I read her Coach’s joke. Then she put her arm around me. “C’mon Millie, it’s time to get this dragon into the house and get some cold lemonade into us!”
As Maddie handed me my drink, I pulled out “Millicent’s List of Splendid Summer Activities” from my briefcase. I’ve planned a lot of exciting adventures for Maddie and me. Since Grandpa died earlier this year, my grandmother’s been depressed. So, to cheer her up I make sure I’m always around. She looked the list over, saying, “Hmm,” as she read each entry, sometimes changing her response to “Ahhh” and “Uh-huh.” I made sure to include projects I thought Maddie might enjoy, such as plotting the downtown traffic patterns or building a subterranean ant village.
Finally, Maddie placed her reading glasses on the top of her head. She already had two other pairs of glasses there, her driving glasses and her sunglasses.
“You know, Millie …” she said slowly. The ice clinked as she took a sip of lemonade. “I was thinkin
g of maybe doing some things on my own this summer, like taking yoga. Maybe you should do some things on your own too. A young girl like you needs to branch out, find new friends her own age.”
I considered how yoga involves emptying your mind, the complete opposite of what I strive to do. Noticing my frown, Maddie quickly added, “Of course, that doesn’t mean we won’t spend time together. Anyway, I thought that Monday was going to be the start of your new life. Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
Ah yes, Monday. That’s when I will be attending my very first college class. It was Maddie who convinced my parents to let me go, though at first they insisted they needed to think about it.
“What’s there to think about?” Maddie had asked. “The tea leaves say it’s what she needs.”
My grandmother often consults the tea leaves, and if they don’t tell her what she wants, she simply moves them around until they do.
Mom and Dad pursed their lips as if they had just eaten some lemons. “Come on, Millie,” Maddie sighed, taking my shoulders and facing me toward the door. “When their faces start scrunching up like that, it’s our invitation to leave so they can talk about us.”
“You didn’t even begin to convince them,” I complained as she marched me into the living room. “What am I supposed to do for the rest of my life? Hang around the house?”
“I planted the seed,” she said. “Then I backed down when they were expecting a fight. They’ll come around on their own. You’ll see.”
Sure enough, that night a Min Family Meeting had been called. At Min Family Meetings, problems/challenges/grievances are aired, discussed, and voted on. It is not as democratic as it may seem. My parents always have a secret Pre-Min Family Meeting first. They’ve read lots of parenting books that instruct them to prepare a unified front. What they don’t know is that I’ve read the same books, so I know what to expect from them.
“Millie,” my mother began solemnly. “College is a big step, especially for someone who’s only eleven.” I held my breath and braced myself for the bad news. “Now, listen carefully,” she said. “Here’s the deal….”
I could not believe it…. My parents actually agreed to let me take one college course! The caveat being that it had to be something “fun” and not have anything to do with numbers. Just because I once stayed awake for fifty-three hours straight to work out a complicated equation, Mom and Dad think I have an unhealthy obsession with math.
After much consideration, I have selected Professor Skylanski’s Classic and Contemporary Poetry class. I’m looking forward to studying the great poets, interacting with my intellectual peers, and putting high school behind me — at least for the summer.
“Well, perhaps you’ll make more friends in school next year,” Maddie mused as she tried placing her dragon in various spots in the kitchen. “Then I’m sure your yearbook will be filled with autographs. Or maybe,” she said nonchalantly, “you could befriend that nice boy, Stanford Wong. I hear he’s having some problems in school.”
I quickly changed the subject. Just thinking about stupid Stanford Wong is enough to creep me out. “I have plenty of friends,” I assured Maddie. “Like Mrs. Martinez from the library. And what about Coach Frank? He’s my friend.”
Maddie just smiled. “You know,” she said, “in China dragons are considered good luck. You ought to have a dragon for your journey. One never knows where life might lead.”
“We’re not in China, we’re in America,” I pointed out. “Besides, I know exactly where I’m headed.” It’s true. I’ve mapped out my goals for the next fourteen years.
“Try veering off the road now and then,” Maddie suggested as she lugged her dragon around the room. “Take a few side trips, see where you end up. You might be pleasantly surprised.”
I stifled a laugh as I sipped my lemonade. Everyone knows that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Why would I want to take any other route?
I feel a duty to report that prior to this, my soon-to-be-triumphant debut at Rogers College, I have had, shall we say, some less successful summer endeavors.
Summer camp is no longer a possibility due to the unfortunate episode last year at Crystal Day Camp. Barbie, my counselor, felt compelled to call my parents to retrieve me after I threatened to sue. (I had found several health and safety violations.) And summer school at JFK High is not even an option. I’ve already completed so many classes that if I take any more, there won’t be any left when I am a senior in the fall.
Everyone keeps making a fuss about my graduating next year. I can’t wait. I want to get on with my life, go to college, embark on the first of several careers, and win the Fields Medal — the highest mathematical honor a person under forty can receive. It would be great to do all this by age twenty, but I don’t want to put too much pressure on myself. Therefore, if it doesn’t happen until I am, say, twenty-three, that’s fine with me.
My age has always been an issue. Not for me, but for everyone else. Even starting at JFK was a big deal. I was nine at the time. On my first day of high school, my grandparents, parents, and the press insisted on tagging along. I made them walk four paces behind me, since I didn’t want to stand out.
The next morning I was mortified to learn that the Associated Press picked up a photo of me on tippytoes trying to reach the top of my locker while a couple of basketball players stood by and gawked. The caption on the photo read “High school may not be a big stretch for nine-year-old Millicent Min, but her locker sure is.”
In time things calmed down. Now new students stare, but most of the upperclassmen are used to me, and instead of being known as “that smart little girl,” I am vilified as “the one who brings up the curve.”
I had a difficult start, though. It’s embarrassing enough being a foot shorter and five years younger than your peers, but then to have your grandmother cemented to you makes it even worse.
My parents allowed me to go to high school with the condition that during freshman year, Maddie would walk me to my first-period class. There, she was expected to hand me over directly to Gaspar, my habitually late French instructor whose real name was Lester. Maddie and I made an odd couple, but at least it meant I had somebody to talk to while the other kids made it a point to ignore me.
We were well into the first week and waiting outside Gaspar/Lester’s class when someone, I never did figure out who, made an offending remark using the words “boring,” “brainiac,” and “Millicent” in the same run-on sentence. Believing I was being ridiculed, my grandmother warned my classmates that she knew kung fu and was not afraid to use it. To show how serious she was, Maddie did a series of complicated martial arts moves involving low blocks, high kicks, and several impressive jump spins.
There was a gasp from the crowd and immediately everyone backed away, fearing Maddie might hurt herself. When she was done and the applause petered out, Maddie was still in her age-defying leg-split position.
“Get up,” I hissed. “Everyone’s staring.”
“No can do,” she whispered. “I appear to be stuck.”
By then Gaspar/Lester had arrived. He asked for volunteers and several of the bigger boys carried my grandmother to the school nurse’s office as she waved adieu to first-period French.
“Quel fromage,” murmured the girl next to me as we watched Maddie being carted away.
“Dommage,” I said, smiling helpfully. “‘Quel fromage’ means ‘which cheese.’ ‘Quel dommage’ means ‘what a pity,’ if that’s what you meant to say.”
Instead of saying thank you, the girl stared blankly at me like I was the one who was confused.
Luckily, Maddie will not be escorting me to college tomorrow. I’m looking forward to reinventing myself and forging new friendships. Friendships with students who are my peers, who use proper French vocabulary, and who won’t think of me as just another dweeb in a toga. (But that’s another story.)
This morning I was up before anyone else. I dressed, had breakfast (two s’mores Pop-Tarts, a banana, and a tall glass of chocolate milk) and was in the car honking the horn when my father stumbled into the garage. His hair was listing to one side like the Leaning Tower of Pisa and he was still in his pajamas, the ones with the dancing dogs and fire hydrants all over them.
“You’re going like that?!?!” I asked, trying to mask my horror.
My father is fashion-impaired. Recently, he wore a Hawaiian shirt, albeit with his good pants, to an interview. (He did not get the job.) I myself was dressed in freshly laundered chinos, my best T-shirt, the one that says “Reality is merely an illusion,” and, of course, white canvas Keds. As a vegetarian concerned about animal rights, I do not wear leather.
“Millicent, it’s five-thirty in the morning. Your class does not begin until nine-thirty,” Dad said, running his fingers through his hair and making it look worse, which was quite an achievement.
Well, duh. Of course I knew what time it was. I am never without a watch, even when I sleep. It’s just that I didn’t want to be late. My mom and I have a thing about not being late. However, I must resort to desperate measures to ensure promptness, especially when waking up early is involved.
I am not a morning person, and I am suspicious of people who claim to be. It’s just not natural. Therefore, I keep my alarm clock in my closet. That way, when it rings in the morning I am forced to get out of bed to shut it off. I also set my watch ahead by four minutes to fool myself into thinking I’m behind schedule. It’s a strategy I learned from my mother. Our motto is “Better an hour early than a minute late.” This morning, though, I was so excited about college that I couldn’t sleep, thereby making waking up a foregone conclusion.
After much debate, my father and I came to a compromise. We left the house at 7:30 A.M., giving us ten minutes to get to college, ten minutes to find parking, twenty minutes to find my classroom, five minutes for him to get all mushy about “his little girl growing up,” five minutes for me to get rid of him, ten minutes to organize my pens and paper, and an hour to wait for the professor.
I had a slight panic attack when the Honda stalled twice en route, once causing a minor traffic jam in front of Pep Boys. Luckily, I was able to make up the time since there was little need for me to organize my supplies, having pre-organized the night before.
