by Lisa Yee
I considered inviting Emily over to the barbecue, but I am still carefully monitoring my parents’ behavior. They seem to be doing better these days; however, Dad did chase Mom around the yard, holding two sparklers on the top of his head, pretending to be a bull. If that were not bad enough, Maddie grabbed a tablecloth and whipped it in the air yelling, “Toro, toro, toro!” It’s a miracle that I even go out in public with these people.
Family weirdness aside, life is looking up. I have undergone marked improvement in my volleyball game. Coach Gowin actually barked, “All right, Millicent!” when I finally served the ball over the net. The other team was so shocked that they allowed it to fall to the ground unchallenged. I experienced an adrenaline rush that heretofore I had only felt when I aced an exam.
Emily was so proud of me. Afterward, we recounted the serve over and over again. We could have gone on for hours except that when I started to replay my serve for the umpteenth time, Emily was suddenly stricken with a major hangnail. We spent the next half hour debating whether she should clip it off or let it be. It is wonderful how we are always there for each other.
Curiously, Maddie is tickled that Emily and I have bonded. Yesterday, while we were seeing who could stack the most Oreos without making them fall, she kept asking, “Everything okay with you?” the way a person does when they really want to say something else. Finally, Maddie pursed her lips, sighed, then said with a big smile, “Millicent, I am so happy you finally have a friend your age to play with. As much as I love you, I don’t think it’s healthy for us to spend all our time together.”
“I don’t mind spending time with you,” I comforted her. I know she must be a little jealous of Emily. “Besides, I don’t play. You know that.”
At dinner, when Dad mentioned that Emily would be a welcome break from Maddie, a crescent roll slipped from my mother’s hand and hit him on the shoulder. “It was an accident,” she said, not looking the least bit remorseful.
“So’s this,” Dad replied, throwing it back at her.
It was just like volleyball practice all over again. I tried to ignore Mom and Dad’s antics as I ate. I had a lot on my mind. I am seriously thinking of asking Emily to stay over, but my parents’ behavior is troubling.
“Stop!” I finally shouted. Mom and Dad held their crescent rolls up in the air and froze. “This is so childish,” I said, lowering my voice just a bit. My mother looked guilty as she bit into her roll and chewed slowly.
“It’s all in good fun,” my father commented, gently placing his roll back in the bread basket and patting it like a baby.
“Is it?” I asked. “Is it really?”
I went to public school for my elementary education. First through third grades were fine, except for the inane songs we had to sing, usually involving little animals. However, once I hit the fourth grade at age six, my learning curve shot upward while my social curve plummeted into a great abyss. The worst part of my day was recess. That is, until lunchtime when the entire student body descended upon the cafeteria.
“I see London, I see France, I see Betina’s underpants!” Digger sang. He was in the second grade, and a year older than me, though he acted much younger.
Seeing the pained look on Betina’s face reminded me of the (many) times I had been teased by Digger. If only someone had stood up for me, I thought.
Betina tried to ignore Digger, but he was relentless. I felt so bad for her. Suddenly, I surprised myself by standing up and announcing, “Digger, London is a city, whereas France is a country, so if you knew anything, you’d know that your song is inconsistent.” I glanced over to Betina, who was giving me a curious look.
Digger’s face turned as red as his hair. He stormed off as Betina and her friends giggled. I had expected her to thank me and perhaps even welcome me into her circle. But it didn’t happen. She must have been pretty busy. I’m not sure what exactly is involved with being popular, but it seems to leave you with little time for anyone other than your own kind. Betina and her clique were show-offy girls, the kind that like people to look at them, but then say, “Hey! What are you looking at?” as if they are deeply offended. Still, how difficult would it have been for Betina to say thank you or even acknowledge me?
Later that day I was sitting in my normal spot in the back of the cafeteria with only my chocolate chip cookies for companionship, and they were disappearing fast. From my outpost I could see Betina and company sneaking peeks at Digger. The more they laughed, the redder he got. Then it started.
Digger lobbed a Tater Tot in my direction. “Hey, Mill the Pill, duck!” he shouted. The first one hit my tray and made the girls giggle louder. Before I could deliver a sharp reprimand, I was being bombarded with reconstituted potato bits. As I peered through my fingers, I saw the cafeteria monitor heading toward us with a grimace on her face. Then the next thing I knew, Digger and I were parked outside the principal’s office and I noticed that my assailant looked like he was only one chromosome shy of being a serial killer.
“Kill Mill the Pill,” Digger whispered to me right before the principal called us into her office. “Digger never forgets kids who double-cross him.”
I felt a chill go through me. His threats never bothered me before, but this time was different. As he stared me down, I was suddenly aware of the depth of his spite.
Principal Powell looked stressed. She always looked stressed whenever I saw her, which was often. I liked to report my evaluation of the faculty and the school facilities to her on a biweekly basis. Plus, I was always dropping by her office to keep her informed about the latest education referenda and encouraging her to become more politically active.
Her voice sounded strained and I considered offering her a soothing lozenge, but she was already munching on a handful of Tums. “Did Digger throw Tater Tots at you, Millicent?” Principal Powell asked.
“No,” I said softly with my head bowed.
“Are you sure?” She picked up a pen and started clicking it at an alarming rate. “We have several witnesses, plus you have potato all over your sweater.”
I glanced sideways at Digger, who silently mouthed, “Kill Mill the Pill.” “I’m sure,” I mumbled.
The next day Digger, now joined by his posse of half-witted delinquents, thanked me by flinging chunks of hamburger buns in my direction. This was to be a pattern for the next few months. I didn’t mind it so much when it was chips. Digger was too dense to figure out that you can’t really throw a potato chip, but that didn’t stop him from trying. When he graduated to grapes, though, they really hurt, and I knew I would have to do something to put an end to my mistreatment, even if it meant making a permanent enemy of Digger.
For weeks I deliberated my revenge. Once I hit upon it, it didn’t take long to figure out the formula. Timing, though, would be crucial. On the appointed day, I carried my booby-trapped salt shaker into the cafeteria, careful to make sure it remained upright and stable. The cafeteria was serving French fries, and I knew my enemy habitually oversalted.
Digger barely registered any recognition as I sat down, other than to hiss, “Mill the Pill.” I rewarded him with a generous smile as I discreetly swapped my salt shaker with the one already on the table. They looked identical, except that mine contained concentrated lemon juice and baking powder, separated by a thin piece of tissue paper.
Right on cue, Digger reached for the salt and began to shake it over his fries. When nothing came out, he kept trying even harder. It was at this point that the tissue broke down and the pressure resulting from the acid-base reaction began to build.
BOOM!!! As planned, the top of the salt shaker flew off amid a shower of foam that covered my tormentor.
As the whole room erupted in laughter, the cafeteria monitor marched straight toward me. It might have been that she had seen the abuse Digger had inflicted on me over the months and figured out who had exacted revenge. Or maybe it was that I had the foresight to bring a Polaroid camera and take pictures. Wha
tever the reason, I found myself sitting outside Principal Powell’s office for the last time.
It’s official. Emily will be my first overnight guest! Before I even had the chance to invite her, she suggested it. It’s like we are totally in sync. All week I’ve been prepping my parents on the proper sleepover etiquette:
1. They are to be solicitous, but keep their distance.
2. They are not to discuss politics, kiss, or dance in front of my guest.
3. They are to refrain from mentioning my intellectual achievements or my academic status.
Though Mom and Dad protested, they ultimately agreed to my terms. In return, I promised to put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher instead of in the sink and to stop clipping articles until everyone has had a chance to read the newspaper.
“You should tell her soon,” my mother advised as she helped me tuck my academic citations and certificates into the armoire in the dining room. “Emily will feel betrayed if you don’t.”
She stopped to catch her breath. Lately, Mom’s been unusually tired. When I suggested vitamins, she just said she needs to give up David Letterman. Dad calls her a “Do-It-All.” “The only way I can relax is by getting things done,” she said, sounding defensive.
“I don’t have that problem,” Dad chirped from his La-Z-Boy. Neither my mother nor I bothered to respond. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
“I’ll tell Emily that I’m in high school soon,” I assured Mom as I tried to force-fit my chess trophies into the armoire. “Don’t worry, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
A wing broke off one of the statuettes. I tossed it in with the rest of the awards, figuring there’d be time to glue it back on later.
“Neat house!” Emily enthused.
I was pleased. Our house is neat. I have devised a system of cleaning using charts and graphs to break the house into quadrants and to disseminate assignments. When we all do our part, everything falls into place, except, of course, for large portions of my dad’s designated areas.
Oddly, Emily was entranced by my father’s den. To make matters worse, he kept dragging out more knickknacks and playthings.
“My dad has the full set of Matchbox cars too,” she said. Her eyes got big and she released a huge sigh. “We used to race them together, but now I never see him anymore.”
“Oh, well, here’s something I’ll bet you’ve never seen.” Dad quickly pulled out his Rock’em Sock’em Robots and tried to change the subject. He can’t stand it when people are sad. One time when my father saw a barefoot homeless man, he took off his shoes and gave them to him. Then Dad had to run all the way home because it was a really hot day and the sidewalk was sizzling.
“Too cool,” Emily said, examining the robots. Immediately, the two of them began boxing.
After a while, I looked at my watch and cleared my throat. “Eh-hem. Dad, Emily is here to socialize with me, not you.”
Embarrassed, he excused himself. I detected that Emily was disappointed too. But what was I to do? She was my guest, and though the evening had hardly begun, we were already off schedule.
I was hesitant to show Emily my room. Unlike hers, with her white wrought-iron bunk bed and frilly girl things, my room is functional, albeit small. Aside from the washer and dryer, I have a bed with a sensible blue bedspread that I chose from the JCPenney white sale, a student desk, and lots of bookshelves (which I cleared in anticipation of Emily’s visit). As for decorations, the walls used to have plenty of my diplomas, awards, and photos of me shaking hands with important people, but those were in hiding until I could find the right time to tell Emily about my true self. The only thing I didn’t take down was my Mona Lisa poster. It’s my favorite da Vinci because Mona Lisa looks like she knows more than she’s letting on.
To my relief, Emily didn’t criticize my decor. Instead, she said, “Wow, you have a washer and dryer in your room? Millie, you are so interesting.”
That night, after a delicious dinner (vegetable lasagna, fresh-squeezed lemonade, and Dad’s famous double-fudge brownies), we sat on the floor deciding whether or not bangs made Emily’s face look round. Impulsively, she pulled my sweater box out from under my bed.
“No!” I cried as I tried to yank it away from her.
“What is it, Millie?” she asked, laughing. “Oooh, some deep dark secret?”
During our ensuing tussle, the box spilled open and my comic book collection scattered all over my room.
I was mortified.
“Millicent Min,” Emily declared, “I don’t believe it!”
I tried to explain that comics are nothing to be ashamed of, that I keep them for historical reference, when Emily gushed, “I have all of these Archies and even some that I don’t see here! Don’t you just love Betty? I just know that one day she’ll win Archie’s heart.”
We spent the rest of the evening recalling our favorite plotlines. Oh, how I wish this summer would last forever.
“Millie, we’re so alike. It’s like we’re twins!” Emily proclaimed. “They say that everyone in the world has a twin whether they realize it or not. Isn’t it amazing that we’ve found each other?”
I’ve always wanted a sibling. However, I suspect my parents were overwhelmed by the challenges of raising a genius. It could not have been easy, either financially or emotionally. My father has yet to recover from the first time I beat him at Monopoly eight years ago. To this day he insists that had he not landed in jail, Marvin Gardens would have been his.
My guest and I were trying to have a decent conversation about which was better, peds or tube socks, but my mother kept coming into my room to check the dryer and say inane things like, “If you don’t take cottons out at the exact right moment, they wrinkle and you have to iron them.”
“Here, let me help you,” Emily said, leaping up and waving her fingertips in the air.
I have boxes of nail polish and beads and girlish things my grandparents in Arizona send me for birthdays and Christmas. They live in a condo on a golf course and don’t know what to make of me. I think I scare them.
Emily had painted her fingernails using a palette of red, maroon, and orange and then overlapped various hues on her toenails. I was reminded of the work of the artist Mark Rothko. After much deliberation, I selected a tasteful shade of peach. My right hand looked fine, but the other hand looked like I had a monkey for a manicurist. I am a lefty, but consider myself in good company. Famous left-handers include Pablo Picasso, Eudora Welty, Harry Truman, and Oprah Winfrey.
My mother smiled as she filled the laundry basket with clothes fresh from the dryer. She held Dad’s tattered Hang Ten T-shirt against her face. She loves it when the laundry is still warm. Once I caught her sitting under just-dried sheets reading a book.
“That’s all right, Emily,” Mom said, leaning against the dryer to steady herself. “This is the last load. I’ll leave you girls alone now.”
I mouthed “thank you” to my mother. She winked and shut the door.
“Wow,” Emily said as she blew on her nails. “I wish I had a family like yours. Your parents are so normal.”
Normal? My parents? It’s common knowledge that fumes from nail polish can affect your brain and cause you to hallucinate. I opened my bedroom window to let in some fresh air as Emily and I read aloud from my comics. Since she was the guest, Emily got to be Archie and I was Jughead. We took turns being Betty and Veronica. It was hysterical. We laughed so hard that after a while no sound came out, and we were too delirious to even turn another page.
My father is in pain and lying flat on his back on the floor. He says it is all Maddie’s fault. Maddie says he needs more exercise.
My grandmother called earlier today to tell us she was coming over with big news. I was certain she was finally getting a shar-pei puppy, since she has been talking about it forever. However, she has chosen to make an even more life-altering change.
About six months ago, not long after my grandfathe
r died, Maddie decided she needed something new to occupy her time. She narrowed it down to feng shui or real estate and then consulted the tea leaves. Both appealed to her because, as she put it, “People actually pay you to poke around their homes and tell them what to do.”
“To think, all these years she’s been doing that for free,” Dad whispered to Mom.
“I heard that, Jack,” Maddie informed him. She has a keen sense of hearing and claims to have once heard a bubble burst.
The tea leaves said she should become a feng shui master. In her words, she will “be a conduit in the six-thousand-year-old Chinese art of balancing wind over water to create harmonious environments.” (She’s going to tell people where to move their furniture.) Hence the huge wooden dragon she bought on my last day of school. Originally he resided in the kitchen, but every time I visit, he’s in another room. She has named the dragon Julius.
“After Julius Caesar?” I asked.
“No, after Orange Julius,” she replied. It is her second-favorite drink. Green tea is number one.
Though we usually converse in English, Maddie is now insisting on speaking Chinese. She believes people will pay more if they think she’s an authentic feng shui master. She’s learning conversational Cantonese via a series of audiotapes she bought from the Home Shopping Network. Unfortunately, Maddie’s Chinese accent sounds more Chilean to me.
Tonight, before her announcement, Maddie practiced feng shui on our living room and made Dad change the furniture into several different configurations, finally selecting one that was not that far off from where they began. I thought my father was going to kill her, which is totally against the “positive flow of chi” that Maddie was striving for.
After my father collapsed on the floor, Maddie called a Min Family Meeting. When I started to recite the bylaws forbidding non-Mins, both my parents gave me “that look.” Their precision timing was very impressive. I wonder if they practice.
