by Lisa Yee
But really, I was trying. I reviewed the movements again and again, yet no matter how much I mapped out my strategy, the ball or my body had other ideas.
When, at long last, the practice session ended, I was relieved because I had not expected to make it through the hour. I was convinced that I would need to be carried out of the gym on a stretcher, the only upside being that my mother would feel great remorse for demanding I engage in a wasted afternoon of forced fun.
“We only have one more practice session. Then we have our first game on Wednesday, and I won’t be as easy on all of you,” Coach Gowin threatened. “And Millicent,” she sighed, “work on the basics. Don’t be afraid to hit the ball. It won’t bite!”
I am going to build a case against volleyball, explain to Mom that she has made a mistake, and get off the team. I can see no redeeming reason to stay on. I am clearly of no value to the team, and the game has nothing in it for me.
Volleyball reminds me of kindergarten — something I tried but was just not suited for. My mother accompanied me on my first day of school and sat in the back of the room trying to look inconspicuous. It must have been very uncomfortable for her because she was confined to one of those Lilliputian chairs and couldn’t figure out what to do with her legs. (She has long legs and the body of a dancer — unlike me. I’m short and resemble a twig.)
I was assigned to a table with a girl sporting pigtails and two boys, one of whom would pee in his pants before the day was over. Most of the children in the room were crying, and one pointed to me and shrieked, “How come that baby gets to bring her mommy?”
Insulted, I informed the boy that I was not a baby, that I was three years old and would turn four in February. Unimpressed, the boy stuck his tongue out at me. When I began to chide his infantile behavior, I stopped myself. Really, it is impossible to argue with a child.
Turning her back to the commotion, the teacher wrote her name on the chalkboard in big fat letters. When she finished, she smiled and spoke through her teeth. “My name is Miss Carp,” she said loudly, as if we were geriatrics, not juveniles.
Being helpful, I shared with the class that carp can flourish in muddy water. Before I could even begin to describe their skeletal system, the pigtailed girl yelled, “Teacher rolls around in the mud!”
As the whole class burst out laughing, Miss Carp looked alarmed, like she had just swallowed a fly.
I tried to make it up to her the rest of the day by answering anytime she asked the class a question. Or by team-teaching with her when she seemed at a loss, which was quite often. I do think that despite the weary look on her face, which grew worse whenever I raised my hand, Miss Carp thought highly of me. After all, the minute the 3:30 bell rang, she pulled my mother aside, told her I was very bright for my age, and suggested I skip a grade.
I wonder if Debbie’s ever skipped a grade? I put it on my list of topics to discuss with her the next time I see her. And volleyball, boy, I can’t wait to tell her about volleyball.
Despite my detailed analysis of what was wrong with Craig (see list), Debbie started seeing him again.
CRAIG’S SHORTCOMINGS
1. Immature
2. Selfish
3. Has changed major 5 times
4. Always late
5. Never has exact change
6. Wears same T-shirt several days in a row
7. Hogs conversation
8. Thinks Jane Austen is a country singer
9. Poor table manners
10. Chews his pen
At first we’d all study together, but I know I made him nervous, especially after he found the list. Unfortunately, by then Debbie was under his spell.
“Millie, do you mind?” Debbie said this afternoon, folding up what I can only discern was a love letter. It was written on the back of a flyer advertising kickboxing lessons. “It’s personal, okay?” I stopped reading over her shoulder, but not before seeing the vomit-inducing clichés “Can’t live without you” and “You are the sunshine of my life.”
Debbie looked over my head and surveyed the cafeteria. “Don’t you have any other friends?” she asked.
“Nope,” I said. I was happy that she considered me a friend. “Not here, anyway. My best friend is Maddie,” I told her, leaving out the part about Maddie being my grandmother.
“Hey, Deb,” I asked. I was a little bit apprehensive. “How would you like to go to the movies with me sometime? Or maybe you could come to my house for dinner. My mom says it would be okay.”
“Oh, Millie,” Debbie said, sighing deeply. We were having mocha lattes and sipping off the foam. (Well, actually I was having a root beer, she was having a mocha latte.) “Listen, I’m very fond of you, but you’re just a child. You can’t really expect us to be in the same social circle, can you?”
I felt like I was having a sudden asthma attack, only I don’t have asthma. Immediately, Debbie began waving her arms and yelling, “Over here!” I was touched that she was calling for medical assistance. Until I realized that she was signaling Craig to come join us.
“I thought we were friends and that you liked talking about college, and the mean kids in high school, and the stupidity of volleyball,” I blurted out as I tried to catch my breath.
Craig dragged a chair over and sat between us. “I like volleyball,” he offered as he slurped Debbie’s latte through three coffee stirrers.
“Hey!” she said in mock anger.
Craig grinned and began to kiss her. Disgusting. I just scowled at him. Mid-kiss, they both opened their eyes and stared back at me. “Are you still here?” Craig asked.
Debbie pushed him away. “Not now,” she whispered.
He wrapped his arms around her. “Debbie’s not your baby-sitter, you know,” he said. “She only lets you hang around because you do her homework and she feels sorry for you.”
I was aghast. Okay, so maybe we weren’t in the same social circle. But at least we were friends, anyone could see that. “Debbie,” I said, glaring at Craig. “Tell him that’s not true!” Debbie looked at me, and then at Craig, and then back at me. “Tell him,” I insisted.
“Millie … I’m sorry,” she began.
I didn’t wait to hear what else she had to say. Without a word, I got up, gathered my things, and tried to make a dramatic exit, only I bumped into Craig’s chair and hurt my hip. As I hobbled away, Debbie began to call after me, but Craig hushed her. Then I heard him telling her that I was a freak. To her credit, Debbie defended me and told him that he was just jealous.
Imagine that. Jealous of a freak.
Okay, so maybe I have been brooding over the way Debbie treated me. And maybe I did retreat to my tree and refuse to come down for dinner last night. Still, you’d think that my parents would have sympathy for me. But nooooo. Instead they are adding to my anguish.
“You want me to what?” I bellowed for a second time. I feared I was starting to lose my hearing and would end up deaf like Ludwig van Beethoven.
“I want you to tutor Stanford Wong,” my mother said again. She looked tired. Perhaps coaxing me down from my tree had sapped her strength. Not enough, unfortunately, to stop her from lobbing another zinger my way.
I turned to my father, who was absorbed in rooting around for his prize in the Cracker Jack box. When he was a kid he won a Winky Badge and has been searching for another plastic rabbit like it ever since.
With this glaring absence of insight from my father on the Stanford situation, I was forced to ponder my fate alone. Stanford Wong is the poster boy for Chinese geekdom and the grandson of one of Maddie’s many best friends. I hadn’t seen my nemesis in months, and that was not long enough for me.
The last time I was in the same room with Stanford he was squatting behind a chair stuffing his face with pineapple during a game of “Catch the Castaway” at my ill-fated eleventh birthday party. Wearing his regular uniform of jeans, white T-shirt, Lakers cap, and thick glasses, he poisoned my house wit
h his mere presence. Later, when I saw him marching my way gritting his teeth, I knew that he was being sent over to talk to me. I started to back away, but hit the kitchen wall. There was nowhere to turn. Nowhere to run.
“Milli-scent,” he said without much enthusiasm.
“Stan-turd,” I replied.
We both looked over to our grandmothers, who were waving and giving each other so many little nudges that one of them was bound to tip over at any moment. Stanford and I smiled back and then resumed glaring at each other. We have had this routine since we were small.
“You’re ruining it for the rest of us,” he hissed. “Stop it.”
“Ruining what?”
“Our lives.”
“Stink-ford, I have no idea what you are talking about.”
He pitched his voice so that it sounded singsongy. “Whizzing though elementary school, practically skipping middle school, starting high school at the tender young age of nine. Because of you, teachers expect every Chinese kid to be a genius.”
I looked at him standing there with a permanent grimace plastered on his face. Perhaps what he said is true. Stanford is not a genius. Far from it. According to Maddie, he gets bad grades, is a goof-off in class, and has little aptitude for academics, although, she is always quick to add, his penmanship is excellent.
“I will try my best to do worse,” I muttered before walking away. “I’ll simply use you as my role model.”
And now this. I am to tutor my mortal enemy. When we spoke on the phone, Stanford was none too thrilled about the prospect either. In fact, his first words were, and I quote, “Aw, this sucks.”
According to Maddie, there is no way he is going to make it through the sixth grade on his own. He failed his English class and has to retake it in summer school. Stanford is expected to write three book reports, plus pass all his quizzes and a final exam, if he is to move up to the seventh grade. That’s where I come in. Maddie had been boasting about me to Stanford’s grandmother, who told Stanford’s father, who told Stanford’s mother, who asked my mother if I would consider tutoring her son. Then, without even consulting me, my mother agreed that starting next Thursday I would commence tutoring Knucklehead.
“Maddie and I thought this would help get your mind off Debbie,” Mom tried to reason with me.
Right. “Hey!” I said. “How about just hitting me over the head with a shovel? That would take my mind off Debbie and be a lot less painful.”
Dad started to chuckle, but my mother silenced him with a glare.
My summer schedule is filling up fast. So far, here it is …
MON: College Poetry 9:30–11:30 A.M.
Volleyball 1:00–3:00 P.M.
Stupid Stanford 3:30–4:30 P.M.
TUE: Stupid Stanford 3:30–4:30 P.M.
WED: College Poetry 9:30–11:30 A.M.
Volleyball 1:00–3:00 P.M.
THU: Stupid Stanford 3:30–4:30 P.M.
FRI: College Poetry 9:30–11:30 A.M.
Volleyball 1:00–3:00 P.M.
SAT: Volleyball 10:00 A.M–Noon
SUN: Recover and begin again
I wonder what my parents have planned for me next? Maybe they’ll loan me out to clean septic tanks. Or perhaps I’ll be sold to the National Hockey League and used as a puck.
If there is any upside to this bad Stanford joke, it is that I will get paid for tutoring. Ever since my dad got laid off, money has been really tight. I am not supposed to say he was fired. Just that he’s now a “contract engineer.” Sometimes his jobs last five months, sometimes a week. He loves this and says he does not like to be constrained, but it makes Mom really antsy and her coupon clipping has increased tenfold.
My parents quarrel about money. They think I don’t know, but I have a Littmann Electronic Model 2000 stethoscope with an extended frequency range of 100–1,000 Hz. It works really well against the wall.
When they have a fight they become excruciatingly polite to each other and adopt a false cheerfulness, the kind usually reserved for laundry detergent commercials in the scene where they get the spot out. What’s worse, they behave as if it’s “Be Kind to Millicent Day,” showering me with false compliments and sneaking me cookies before dinner. As if my vote counted.
Maybe I ought to just live in my tree. When I am up here, I can just be myself, by myself. Here, I don’t have to contend with Maddie asking, “Millie, are you still sad about Debbie?” Or Dad quipping, “Who needs her when you have your good ol’ Dad?” Or Mom saying, “Cheer up, Millie. I’m sure you’ll make new friends. You just have to try a little harder.”
If they are really so concerned about me, then they would get me out of volleyball and out of tutoring Stanford Wong.
Despite my compelling arguments, my mother does not agree with the fresh new direction I suggested my summer activities take. In fact, she even threatened that if I did not stop complaining (“whining” was the term she used), she would also enroll me in synchronized swimming. Thus, it was with great reluctance that I showed up for volleyball again. Luckily, I was already on a team and did not have to suffer the indignity of being chosen last. There’s enough of that at school.
The game began auspiciously enough with the ball flying back and forth, unless, of course, it came anywhere in my vicinity. When it was my turn to serve, I somehow managed to make the ball go behind me. This produced a great deal of tittering from both sides of the net. Embarrassed, I moved forward and prayed that the gym would catch fire or that the ball would explode.
A rather tall, scary girl from the other team took her place to serve. She looked like she could squish me like a bug. Grinning, the girl tossed the ball up in the air with ease. Then she smashed it in the desired direction.
I squeezed my eyes shut as the ball came barreling down at me in what seemed like slow motion. As I said a prayer, I wondered if this was how the dinosaurs felt when the giant asteroid came screaming toward Earth.
Suddenly, BANG! Contact. To everyone’s amazement, I sent the ball flying back to enemy territory. It landed at the feet of the server and then bounced away.
There was a stunned silence as jaws dropped in unison.
Then, at once, laughter erupted. It echoed in the gym and I am sure could be heard throughout Rancho Rosetta.
“She kicked the ball!” someone howled.
I could have just died.
Somehow I managed to struggle through the rest of the game. Not making eye contact with anyone helped, although I am sure my teammates were miffed that I kept bumping into them.
When at last the game was over, I plopped down against the bleachers. I rummaged through my briefcase and fished out a bag of Cheetos and a Gatorade. After I tried in vain to twist the cap off my drink, the girl sitting next to me took the bottle from me and opened it on the first try. Of course, I’m sure I had loosened it quite a bit.
I studied the bottle opener and recognized her as one of the few who did not laugh at me. If I had thought practice was bad, it was nothing compared to my first game. I am convinced my kick will become legendary. Plus, I had barely survived the arrogance, competitiveness, and name-calling. And that was from my own team.
“Hi,” the girl said.
I was cautious, for I thought she might want to chide me for my lackluster performance.
“How do you do?” I answered with some trepidation.
“I’m Emily and I just moved here. Don’t you hate volleyball? Isn’t Coach Gowin just awful? She reminds me of a potato with toothpick legs. Wouldn’t you just love to get your hands on whoever gave her that whistle?”
She paused for a breath, and I seized the chance to get a word in. “I’m Millicent L. Min. Yes. Yes. Ha! Yes,” I replied, as I wiped my palm in anticipation of a more formal introduction and a handshake.
You can tell a lot about a person by the way they shake hands. Some people try to crush your bones to prove that they’re in control. Others barely move their hands and make y
ou do all the work. Then there’s the firm, friendly “hello-there-sincerely-glad-to-meet-you” handshake that I strive to achieve. My mother and I practiced for weeks until I got it right.
The girl tossed formalities aside and continued chatting. I smiled and waited patiently to find out why she thought we were friends. To my delight, I was surprisingly at ease with Emily. There was no pretense, just good-natured social interaction. On two separate occasions we found ourselves finishing each other’s sentences. It was so liberating to talk with someone my own age without the topic of my being a genius coming up and getting in the way.
As we were deep in conversation, a throng of girls sauntered past us. “Keep her away from the doughnuts,” one of them joked as she looked directly at Emily. Everyone laughed, including Emily, but I could tell she really didn’t think it was all that funny. Emily isn’t what I’d call fat, but she definitely wasn’t like the tall lanky gorgeous girls on our team. Neither was I.
“That’s a good one,” Emily called out. “Thanks for the advice, but actually, I only eat healthy food!” I looked at my Cheetos and quickly sat on the bag before Emily could see them.
I didn’t know what to say to Emily about the fat attack she had just endured. It’s one thing to come up with clever comebacks when you are being verbally assaulted, but quite another to devise witty retorts on behalf of someone you just met. To my relief Emily filled up the awkward silence.
“My mom thinks volleyball will be good for me. You know, get coordinated and meet new people, blah, blah, blah,” she confided as she let down her ponytail and shook it out.
Emily reached into her backpack and pulled out a Snickers bar. She offered me half. “I thought you only ate healthy food,” I said, biting into it.
“I just said that to make her feel bad,” Emily remarked with a sly grin. “I know I could stand to lose a few pounds, but the doctor said that I’m healthy, so what’s the big deal? So tell me, why are you here? No offense, but you didn’t look like you enjoyed yourself at all. In fact, a couple of times I thought you were going to cry.”
I could have explained that because I went through school at an accelerated rate, I was never expected to fully participate in physical education. Yet if Emily knew I was a genius she might weird out on me like the rest of them. In a nanosecond I had to decide whether to tell the truth and risk losing a potential friend, or lie and live with the consequences.
