Millicent Min, Girl Genius

by Lisa Yee

Our moms talked for half an hour (ostensibly to say “hello,” but really to check each other out) and ended up making plans for lunch.

  Mom makes friends easily. On the phone. In the Ten Items or Less line. A few years ago when we were at the Grand Canyon, she befriended an entire busload of German tourists when they got separated from their tour guide. Every Christmas we still get boxes of homemade bratwurst.

  “Well, Millicent, you made quite a deep impression on Emily. You will be a gracious guest, won’t you?” my mother asked as she hung up.

  I was so relieved. I was afraid that if Emily stayed at my house our burgeoning friendship would be cut short the first time my father balanced a peanut on his nose.

  My mom’s birthday is coming up, so as a gift, I’m going to let her take me shopping and not complain the entire time. She will be delighted. I need pajamas. Right now I sleep in an old shirt of Grandpa’s that reads “War is not healthy for children and other living things.” I love it because it reminds me of him, but it’s full of holes and I wouldn’t want Emily to think we are poor.

  Though I am excited about the sleepover, I plan to be cautious about our developing friendship. If I’m not careful, something could go wrong again.

  *

  Mom was thrilled that I let her take me shopping. She bought me a nightgown with clouds all over it and a pajama set covered with polka dots. Both were forty percent off. We disagreed over whether the clouds were stratocumulus, which are basically layered cumulus, as I said, or cirrus. However, we were in total agreement that the polka dots were just colorful circles.

  When we got home, Maddie and my father were waiting with a glorious chocolate cake covered in yellow buttercream frosting and topped with red rosettes and plastic dinosaurs. “I made it myself,” Maddie said, feigning a blush.

  She then presented Mom with an attractive beaded purse. Tucked inside was a gift certificate to my mother’s favorite shoe store. Dad and I gave her a wooden model of a stegosaurus and a book called Fossil Feud: The Rivalry of the First American Dinosaur Hunters. Although Mom is an actuary, her long-term goal is to obtain a master’s degree in paleontology. Mom loves dinosaurs. Which is why, she says, she married Dad.

  Mom was so happy and that made me happy. When I am in my tree, if I lean forward and to the left, I can look directly into the living room. I’ve spied my mom moping around the house a lot lately. With my binoculars I can see into most of the neighbors’ houses too. You’d be surprised at what people do when they think no one is watching.

  After cake and ice cream (two helpings of each), I retreated to my room and opened 1,001 Jokes. I will have to tell Mrs. Martinez that the title is misleading. There aren’t really 1,001 jokes in the book, but only 473.

  I placed Post-it notes on the jokes I thought were appropriate for girls my age and then set about memorizing them. Then I drew up a list of potential topics to explore with Emily. They included: 1) History of the Be-Dazzler (I found out it is a clever sewing apparatus designed to fasten rhinestones and studs to clothing); 2) volleyball: elevating or enervating?; and 3) Joan of Arc and other misunderstood adolescents like ourselves.

  As I sat in my room practicing a spontaneous laugh, my mother came in carrying yet another load of laundry. She’s fanatic about clean laundry and washes bath towels after one use. “What’s so funny, Millie?”

  I clamped my mouth shut and slid the joke book beneath my poetry homework. “Nothing,” I said. “I was just rereading A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  Mom loaded up the washing machine and then eased herself onto the floor with me. “I had a great day, sweetheart,” she said. I liked the smell of her. It was like soap and summer.

  “Me too, Mom.”

  She leaned her head against my shoulder. “Are you happy, Millicent?”

  I gave it some consideration. I was really looking forward to my upcoming sleepover, and Professor Skylanski had hinted about a pop quiz. Pop quizzes are so much fun. “Let me think,” I said, pausing. “Yes, I believe I am. Are you?”

  Mom got a faraway look in her eyes. “Happier than I ever imagined,” she murmured. Then she kissed me on the forehead and left me with my jokes and the soothing sound of the washing machine chugging away.

  In spite of the constant grumbling from the other students, poetry class is a pleasure. Professor Skylanski is brilliant, and I feel a natural kinship with her. At the close of today’s class, I joked that we were a “couplet” of huge poetry fans. She replied, “Iamb sure of that!” causing us both to fall into a fit of hysterics that was further exacerbated when I inadvertently let out a snort.

  Unfortunately, my happiness was short-lived when I overheard one of my fellow students mutter, “Nothing like being the teacher’s pet. Just who does little Miss Smarty-Pants think she is?” To which another student replied, “Well, she’s certainly not one of us.”

  Where do I belong, then? I began to panic thinking about Emily’s sleepover. This is my big chance to make a friend, a true friend. What if Emily rejects me like Debbie did? Then it will be back to just Maddie and me. At least I’ll always have Maddie.

  My grandparents met when they were kids. You’d think they would have grown tired of each other. But even when they quarreled, which was often, they still could not bear to be apart.

  After Grandpa died, I would go to Maddie’s house and find her sitting by the window. “We were like this,” Maddie once said as she linked her fingers together. “Now I am only half of what I used to be.” Her hands fell into her lap as she stared outside. I could not see what she was looking at.

  Maddie selected an old Chinese poem called “The Worn Path” to be read at Grandpa’s funeral. From time to time, when she gets wistful, she asks me to recite it. “I miss my partner in crime,” she says.

  Just recently, Maddie’s shroud of sadness lifted. “Whew,” she said this afternoon, patting her forehead with Grandpa’s handkerchief as if she had been in the sun too long. “That’s enough self-pity to smother a horse.” I looked up from my 1,001 Jokes. “Grandpa could never stand a self-pitier, and I don’t suppose he’s been looking at me fondly. It’s time to celebrate his life, not mourn his death,” she said, trying to smile.

  Still, I can tell when she is sad. Maddie gets sad a lot when she thinks about him.

  “You know,” Maddie said, trying to cheer me up, “from all you’ve told me, your grandfather would have adored Emily.” I was trying out my jokes on her, but getting frustrated since half of the time she couldn’t tell when I had gotten to the punch line. “He was convinced you’d have lots and lots of friends. ‘That little Millie,’ he’d say to me. ‘So much going for her. Someday she’ll be the most popular girl at the ball.’”

  My grandfather. What a dreamer.

  When I first told Maddie about meeting Emily, she proclaimed the stars had aligned to form a new constellation. Maybe she was right about that one. Except for the fact that my new friend is loquacious, blonde, and Jewish, Emily and I are exactly the same.

  Maddie let me borrow one of her suitcases for the sleepover. She has a full set from the Home Shopping Network. Since Grandpa died, she’s been having trouble sleeping. So instead she buys a lot of things from those chronically effervescent people hawking their goods on television. Maddie’s been on the air twice, once expounding about the merits of the ThrillGrill Mini-Frying Pan, and another time to give a heartfelt testimonial about cubic zirconia. She did really well considering she doesn’t own either of them.

  I packed both sets of new pajamas, two extra sets of clothes, my first-aid kit, assorted toiletries, and my allergy medication. Then I stood before the mirror and gathered my nerve to let out a spontaneous laugh. It sounded pretty good, so I tried one more.

  I think I’m ready.

  Emily was waiting in the driveway when my mother dropped me off. She grabbed my suitcase and dragged me into the house. “Oh Millie! I am so excited. You are my very first guest,” she gushed.

&n
bsp; Emily’s enthusiasm was making me nervous, and I was afraid that she might start hugging me. I am not a hugger, which is ironic considering that my parents have no qualms about public displays of affection. I looked over my shoulder at my mother, sitting in the Volvo talking with Emily’s mother. Mom winked at me, and I gave her a weak wave back.

  As I entered the house, I was immediately struck by the books. There were books everywhere, a reader’s paradise. Emily’s mom came in and saw me eyeing them. “Please forgive me for all the books,” she said. How could anyone be sorry about having so many books? “I know it’s a mess, but I just haven’t gotten around to organizing yet.”

  There were rows and rows of books on economics and literature and world history lining the shelves. Even more books were stacked in short piles on the floor and many were open as if someone had just set them down momentarily. On the walls were framed magazine covers and articles.

  “You’re Alice X. Ebers, the journalist?” I squawked. I was a great fan of hers and was especially moved by her series in the Atlantic Monthly on child labor.

  “Yes, I’m that Alice X. Ebers,” Emily’s mom said, looking at me with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “Although around here I’m just plain Alice. You know of my work?”

  I froze. To say yes would reveal my high intellect and voracious reading that far surpassed the interests of an ordinary eleven-year-old. I looked at Emily, who was staring at me with an odd expression on her face. I’ve seen that look before when I speak up in class or when test results are announced.

  “My mom mentioned that you wrote,” I mumbled. Emily looked relieved, and Alice looked disappointed.

  “Well, that makes sense,” Alice remarked. “My readership is skewed more toward graduate students and pseudo-intellectuals than middle-school girls, right, Emily?” Emily ignored her. “The only thing I write that Emily ever reads are the notes I leave on the kitchen counter. And I suspect that even those go unread,” Alice said, laughing.

  Emily took my arm. “Come on,” she said, leading me away. “Let’s get out of here!” I wanted to stay and talk to her mom about writing, and I think Alice would have liked that too. Yet in Emily’s eyes I was a normal girl. And normal girls don’t talk about those sort of things. Normal girls talk about … well, just what do they talk about? I’m going to have to research that.

  Emily lives in an enormous tract house with central heat and air, cable TV, and two gas fireplaces. “This place is huge,” I whispered reverently as Emily gave me the house tour. I couldn’t help but notice they even had books in the bathroom and laundry room.

  “Yeah,” she said, not sounding the least bit impressed. “Alice claims we moved to California to get as far away from my dad as possible.” Emily lowered her voice. “But she still thinks he’s going to come to his senses and return someday. So she bought this place because he always said he wanted a big house on the West Coast. Go figure.”

  Emily’s mom is absolutely wonderful. So avant garde. She insisted I call her by her first name. Alice’s smile is warm and her eyes sparkle. Although Emily vehemently denies it, she looks just like her. Alice wore denim with some sort of medieval-looking blouse and served frozen dinners and iced tea from a can.

  “It’s fascinating that you’re a journalist,” I told Alice when I was in the middle of my Three-Cheese Stuffed Rigatoni. Emily was just poking at her Thai-Style Chicken, and Alice was practically done with her Beef Portobello. “It must be so neat to have you for a mom,” I blurted out.

  Alice broke into a big smile, and I felt myself blushing. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, turning to Emily. “Is it neat to have me as a mom?”

  Emily stared at her mother as if she hadn’t noticed she was there before. I began to wonder if she had heard the question. Finally, she answered, “I dunno, you’re my mom, just a regular mom.”

  Alice looked disheartened. Then she brightened and said, “Oops, I almost forgot!” She excused herself and after a few minutes I smelled something funny wafting in from the living room. It was an unusual fragrance, something I could not place. Suddenly, it occurred to me it might be marijuana, Mary Jane, cannabis. Pot. I began to panic. Of course it was drugs. After all, didn’t Alice joke that she was an old hippie?

  Should I call 911? Should I confront her? Or maybe I should just leave. I started to stand up and head to the door when Alice practically knocked me over. She was carrying something that spewed smoke. The smell was so overpowering I thought I would faint.

  “I thought you girls might like this,” she said, beaming. “I just bought it this afternoon in your honor, Millicent.”

  Panicked, I looked over at Emily who was rolling her eyes upward. “Not again,” she muttered. “Alice, you know I hate that stuff.”

  “Um, Alice,” I tried to gather my strength as she placed the offending object in the middle of the dining room table.

  Just say no, I said to myself. Just say no.

  I braced myself and declared, “In my family we do not smoke marijuana, not even for medicinal purposes.”

  Alice gave me a funny look. “Nor do we,” she said. “It’s against the law, you know. However, I hope you have no objection to sandalwood incense.”

  “That’s not marijuana?” I asked, startled.

  “Emily!” Alice said as she burst out laughing. “Your friend is so funny. What a great sense of humor!”

  Somehow I made it through dinner without suffocating on the incense. Alice and I did most of the talking, and I asked her about her travels and her writing. However, I made sure to modify my questions and comments to sound like a regular eleven-year-old, not someone about to enter her senior year of high school.

  Emily did not appear interested at all in the conversation. The minute dinner was over, she grabbed me and we retreated to her room, leaving Alice alone to clear the table.

  Emily’s room looks like a shrine to adolescent girldom and the complete opposite of my spartan dwelling. Her walls are painted purple and dotted with pink hearts. She has her own phone, stereo system, DVD player, and mini-refrigerator stocked with sodas. Plus, boy-band members who are infinitely more beautiful than I am stare out from posters pledging promises like “I will always love you” and “Hey girl, be mine.” Nonetheless, I liked her room.

  “… and look at this,” Emily said, flinging open her closet to reveal a white wicker basket full of dirty laundry. “Aren’t they the cutest things?” On closer inspection, the laundry turned out to be stuffed animals. “They all won’t fit on my bed, so I rotate them so no one will feel left out.”

  I picked up Shamu, who was resting alongside a threadbare Winnie-the-Pooh. “Did you know that there are lots of whales named Shamu? Shamu was the first killer whale to perform at SeaWorld, and she was so popular that after she died they continued to use her name for all the killer whales.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know that!” Emily looked at Shamu with reverence. “I once heard that they were training killer whales to be lookouts for the Navy. Hey, wanna make jewelry? My dad got me a kit with lots of really neat beads.”

  Making jewelry was a lot harder and more fun than I had imagined. Emily’s necklace had no apparent theme other than bright colors. Carefully, I selected my beads to represent world peace, using a large blue-green bead to signify Earth and several smaller colored beads to depict various countries. In between I threaded a peace symbol and animal beads to illustrate harmony.

  Emily alternately read a magazine, danced to pop songs, and tried to help me string the beads while I completed my masterpiece. I was so proud of it when I had finished. “Let me put it on you,” Emily offered as she placed it around my neck. “It’s beautiful, Millie.” I beamed. It was beautiful.

  Just as I was admiring my handiwork in the mirror, Emily chirped, “I know! Let’s switch, you know, like friendship necklaces. I’ll wear the one you made, and you wear the one I made!”

  I hesitated because I loved my necklace so
much. But Emily seemed so keen on the idea that suddenly I felt the same way. As the boy-band members looked on, Emily and I exchanged necklaces and pretended we were being initiated into an elite club in which we were the only members.

  That night we stayed up until midnight, and Alice sang the most amusing songs as she accompanied herself on the karaoke machine. One song in particular caught my fancy. It involved an ant who had high hopes about a rubber tree plant. After we sang it a second time, I led an impromptu discussion on the symbolism of the ant. Emily and Alice listened intently and later shared their views as we passed around a bowl of popcorn laced with Tabasco sauce. I imagined that this was what Woodstock must have been like.

  As I was settling into bed, Emily spoke up. “I am so sorry,” she said softly. She looked like an upside-down troll as she hung her head over the top bunk.

  “Whatever for?” I asked.

  My pillow smelled lemon fresh. I reminded myself to ask Alice what brand of detergent she uses so I can recommend it to my mother. I’m always giving people suggestions on how to improve things. I like to be helpful.

  “My mom is so weird,” Emily lamented. “I can’t believe she forced you to sing with her. And I hate incense. It makes me gag. I think she goes out of her way to embarrass me.”

  “Really? I thought she was cool.” I suppressed the urge to yank Emily’s hair.

  “You do?”

  “Truly.”

  “Oh Millie, you’re the one who’s too cool!”

  As I shut my eyes, I processed the recent memories of my fine evening. My first sleepover, a friendship necklace, hot Tabasco popcorn, and Emily, who thinks I’m cool.

  Yesterday we had a backyard barbecue. While my family ate hot dogs, I was content to munch on grilled corn on the cob, chips dipped in Mom’s spicy salsa, and watermelon. Maddie brought over a festive Fourth of July cake that she claimed she made from scratch, but I spied the Butterfield’s Bakery box in her car.

  It took forever for night to fall. When it finally did, Dad launched several fireworks from our Independence Day Valu-Pak. Simultaneously, I wrote mathematical equations with lit sparklers using the darkness as my blackboard. Maddie and Mom sat in lawn chairs and critiqued our performances by holding up numbers like the Olympic judges. It was so much fun, even though my mother kept giving my dad 10s and throwing kisses to him.