by Lisa Yee
I can’t believe she wants me to read another book. Isn’t my life hard enough as it is?
“Just give it a try,” she says. “You can keep it. It’s not a library book, so you can read it at your leisure.”
I look at the book. It’s called The Outsiders. Is it about camping?
“Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll give it a try.” I am just so relieved that I am not in trouble.
“I think you might be pleasantly surprised,” Mrs. Martinez says.
“And I think you might be nuts,” I want to say but don’t.
AUGUST 2, 7:46 A.M.
Every time someone shuts the refrigerator door, my F paper flutters like it’s trying to get my attention. Maybe if I slam the door hard enough the paper will fall off.
I am about to bite into my peanut-butter toast when Mom strolls into the kitchen. Her hair is down and she’s all dressed up in her new blue suit. She doesn’t look like my mother. She looks like the “after” from one of those makeover shows.
“I’ve got a big presentation today,” my mother tells my father. “Aren’t you going to wish me good luck?”
“Good luck,” he says, not even looking up from the newspaper.
I want to shake him and say, “Doesn’t Mom look great? Look at her. Tell her she looks great.”
“Kristen?” Dad says.
Mom turns around and perks up. “Yes …?”
“Can you pick up my blue shirt from the dry cleaner’s? I’ll need it for tomorrow.”
Mom walks out without saying good-bye.
Dad puts down his paper. “What did I say that was so bad? I just asked her to get the dry cleaning. It’s on her way. Would that be so hard for her to do?”
I start to answer until I realize he’s asked a rhetorical question. Mr. Glick just taught us about those. They are questions people ask when they don’t really want to hear what you have to say.
AUGUST 3, 2:04 P.M.
Oh man, it’s worse than I thought. Millicent is really bad at volleyball. If I were her I’d be too embarrassed to even step on the court. She’s trying to serve right now, only both of her arms are stiff and her face is all scrunched up. She looks like Frankenstein trying to dance.
Emily’s not a terrific player either, though I’d never tell her that. At least she doesn’t look like a total dweeb with a volleyball. She looks like someone who should have her own television show. I know I’d tune in.
I’m sitting in the top bleachers watching Emily’s team. The girls on both sides keep looking at me and giggling. I’m not sure why. Is it my hair? I spiked it today. It took me an hour to get it just the right amount of messy.
“You look nice, Stanford,” my mom said when I left the house. Then she winked at me and added, “Say hello to Millicent for me.”
The game just ended. Emily’s team won and she’s jumping up and down looking all happy, and I can’t help but grin. After my team loses a basketball game, the only person more miserable than me is Digger.
Emily comes running up the bleachers toward me. I imagine us running toward each other in slow motion through a field of flowers, except that I have allergies. So instead, I shift the dream to the beach. No, wait, even better, Emily and I are running toward each other in slow motion across a basketball court …
“EXCUSE ME!” It is Millicent Min. “Are you even on this planet?”
Oh. I didn’t notice her with Emily.
“Millie and I were just going to get some ice cream,” Emily says. Her cheeks are still flushed from playing volleyball. She always looks good.
“Ice cream? Really? I was just thinking about ice cream.” I don’t tell her that I had a double cone right before I came here.
We head to the ice-cream parlor with Emily walking in the middle. There’s not enough room on the sidewalk for the three of us, and Millicent keeps falling into the street, which gets really annoying after a while.
“You again?” the ice-cream lady says. I signal her to be quiet, but she doesn’t get it. “Another double chocolate mint cone with sprinkles?” she asks loudly. “That’s two in one day.”
I look at Emily, but she’s busy studying all the ice-cream flavors. Millicent manages to give me a smug look, however. Does she have to know everything?
I remember my manners and pay for Emily’s cone. Millicent orders chocolate in a cup and makes a big deal about getting her money out of her briefcase. She is so strange. I don’t let her get to me. I’m too busy talking with Emily.
“I hated volleyball at first,” she confides. “But it’s not as bad as it was before. And since Millie’s there with me, I know we can make faces at each other when one of us messes up. It’s always great to have friends you can count on, don’t you think? I’ll bet you have a lot of friends, Stanford.”
“Well, I do have the guys from basketball.”
Emily smiles and I melt a little. “You’re lucky you’re so good at basketball. You must have real talent.”
I don’t mention my good-luck charm. Instead I say, “Actually, I do practice a lot. But I don’t mind. I love playing basketball. It’s not work; it’s fun.”
Emily looks interested, so I tell her about when the B-Team won the league championship, thanks to me. I’ve relived it in my mind millions of times, but this is the first time I’ve said it out loud.
… The crowd was screaming; the clock had run down. I was all alone at the free-throw line.
“Stan-ford! Stan-ford! Stan-ford!” everyone shouted.
I focused on the net. Then, I did what I always do when the pressure is on me to make a free throw: I pushed the ball into the left hand, then the right, then the left, then the right. Hold the ball up. Wait. Bounce the ball. Dribble. Dribble. Dribble. Left hand. Right hand. Both hands.
As if by magic, the crowd was suddenly silent. It was like I was all alone in the gym. A feeling of complete calm washed over me. Before I took my shot, I knew. I knew what would happen. I bounced the ball one more time, then sent it floating into the air.
All at once, the crowd went wild! I had made the basket. I had won the B-Team league championship for Rancho Rosetta!!!
As Emily cheers, Millicent frowns. Emily notices and says, “How are you doing in your English class, Millie? What are you and Stanford working on these days?” Emily is just way too nice.
When Millicent doesn’t answer, I jump in. “She’s reading Holes right now. It’s a pretty good book, actually. It’s about belonging, isn’t it, Millicent?”
Millicent grits her teeth and does a fine imitation of a grizzly-bear growl.
“Go on,” says Emily as she eats her strawberry ice-cream cone. It goes nicely with her red dress. Millicent’s wearing another one of her dorky T-shirts. This one says REALITY IS MERELY AN ILLUSION.
Clearly, Emily finds me fascinating, so I continue; only I’m running out of things to say about reading. “The wonderful thing about books is that they have so many pages. I mean, have you ever seen a book with only one page? Now, some books are shorter than others, but they still have a lot of meaningful words in them …”
Suddenly Millicent has a coughing spasm. I wish she’d stop. I can’t think when she’s making all that noise.
“… and, as I keep telling Millicent,” I say, raising my voice to cover her hacking, “Holes has a story within a story.”
Emily says, “It sounds like a great book.”
“It is!” I hear myself answering. “There’s this kid in it who’s totally misunderstood. People think he’s bad, but he’s really not, only no one will listen to him.”
6:32 P.M.
Emily, Emily Ebers. Emily, Emily, Emily. Emily Ebers.
Emily. It’s the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard. Emily. Emily. Emily. Just thinking it makes my stomach do flips.
I am at Burger Barn with the guys. I can’t finish my Barnstormer, so I hand it over to Digger. Technically it’s his anyway since he treated again.
“What are you so happy about?” He plucks the pickles out and tosses them up on the ceiling. The ketchup and mustard make them stick, and then eventually they’ll fall down on some unsuspecting dope’s head.
“That’s cool,” Gus says, tossing his pickles up.
“Nothing,” I say, trying to look depressed. “I am not happy.”
“You should be,” Gus tells me. “You aced Glick’s class and you’re on the A-Team. Life doesn’t get much better than that.”
I would love to tell the guys about Emily. But if I did, they’d want to meet her. And if they did meet her, Emily’s so friendly she’d want to talk to them, and if she talked to them, she’d probably mention that I am tutoring Millicent Min. And if they heard that, they’d laugh, because everyone knows that never in a million years would I be anyone’s tutor. Then I’d be found out and my name would be mud. No, it would be worse than mud, it would be mud puke, stinky, slimy mud puke. Stinky, slimy mud puke on burnt toast.
Guess I’d better not mention Emily Ebers.
Emily, Emily Ebers. Emily, Emily, Emily. Emily Ebers.
I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I think I like it. When I look at Emily, I feel like I can jump so high that I can make free throws from the clouds. Only Emily’s always with Millicent, and when I look at Millicent it makes me fall back down to earth. Crash. Splat. Guts everywhere.
What does Emily see in her? Sometimes Millicent just makes me want to barf. Then I look at Emily and I want to melt. Man, I get all confused, wanting to melt and barf at the same time. Whenever I am around them, my head says to get out of there, but I don’t really want to. Then my feet and my arms and legs just get wild and I end up racing around Emily and getting all hyper while Millicent glares at me.
“How’s work, Stanford?”
Huh?
“I said, how’s work?”
Why is Digger always so interested in my job?
“Really tough,” I tell him.
“Anyone have any more pickles?” asks Gus.
Digger hands him one and says, “Maybe me and the guys will stop by some time to say hello.”
“No, that’s okay,” I say. “My dad’ll get really mad if I have any visitors.”
My feelings of wonderful Emily-ness have been replaced with a pit in my stomach. Gus leans his head back as he waits for a pickle to fall from the ceiling.
“We won’t stay long,” Digger says, taking a huge bite of my hamburger. “We’ll just pop in, say hi, and then leave. Don’t worry, Stanford,” he assures me. “It’ll be like we were never there.”
Just then a pickle falls on Gus’s face.
“Bull’s-eye!!!!” he shouts.
AUGUST 4, 7 P.M.
This might be impossible to believe, but I’m reading the book Mrs. Martinez gave me. It’s the first book that I can’t seem to put down. I’d better be careful or the next thing I know, I’ll be wearing a calculator on my belt.
Mom sees me reading The Outsiders and kisses the top of my head. Usually I squirm when she pulls stunts like that, but this time I just brush her away and keep reading. This book is exactly like my life, except that I am not in a gang and I don’t get in a lot of fights and my parents aren’t dead. I asked Mr. Glick to stay after class Friday and we talked and talked about The Outsiders. Well, I talked and talked. He just grinned.
I thought maybe I had food on my face or something and finally asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just happy that you are enjoying the book. These are the kinds of moments a teacher lives for.”
I’m not sure what he meant, but then he added, “Stanford, I’ll make a deal with you. You read this book and just tell me about it. No report to write, no quiz. And I’ll give you extra credit.”
“Deal!” I told him.
I may pass English after all.
10:07 P.M.
Something weird’s going on. Millicent Min is being nice to me. She’s a lot easier to be around these days, and she hasn’t held it against me that I told the Roadrunners that she was a weirdo. She almost seems like a normal person.
Maybe Millicent’s sick. Or maybe Maddie slipped her some secret potion or something. Maddie has always been into herbs and weird stuff like acupuncture. That’s where they stick a billion tiny needles into you to cure a knee pain. If I had a billion tiny needles in me, it would sure make me forget my knee.
I wonder why Millicent turned out so strange when her family is so fun. Maddie’s a blast, Mr. and Mrs. Min are always goofing off, and her grandfather was really cool. He died last year.
One time Mr. Lee was in the park hiding from Maddie. He claimed they had had an argument about free-range chickens and he was scared to go home. I’m not sure if he was really scared, because Mr. Lee was grinning when he challenged me to a game of H-O-R-S-E. I won, but he got H-O-R, which is pretty good considering I didn’t know that old people could even bounce a ball. I wish my dad would play H-O-R-S-E with me sometime. I’d even let him win.
Dad and I have never done any sports together, although he did try to teach me how to play chess a long time ago. I tried really hard to learn, but I kept making the knights go sideways and finally my father gave up on me.
Maybe after summer school’s over I’ll ask Millicent to teach me chess and then surprise my dad for his birthday. I’ll bet she’s really good at it.
AUGUST 5, 3:10 P.M.
I am waiting at the side of the library. When Millicent appears, I jump out and scare her. After she finishes screaming, Millie checks her watch.
“Am I late? Stanford, you’re early. A volleyball in addition to your ever-present basketball? What’s that for?” She shifts her briefcase to the other hand.
“It’s to play volleyball.”
“I know that,” she bristles. “But why do you have one?”
“Well, I noticed that you could use some help with your serve,” I explain.
“There’s nothing wrong with my serve,” she declares. We both know she is lying.
“Watch,” I tell Millicent as I demonstrate her serve. She laughs at my imitation. I retrieve the ball from the parking lot and toss it to her. “Here,” I say. “You have to strike off your palm and the ball will go in the direction your palm faces…. Okay, that’s good. Now hit it.”
For once, Millicent Min doesn’t argue. Instead she hits the ball, and it wimps out, going straight toward the ground.
I frown. This isn’t going to be easy. “Hold it again, and watch your palm when you strike the ball. And this time, also bend your wrist backward. That way it’ll go up higher.”
I can tell Millicent is actually listening. She follows my advice and we watch in amazement as the ball forms a perfect arc in the air. We try it a few more times and Millicent keeps getting better and better. I can tell she’s getting more confident. She wants to keep going, but I have to stop her.
“We’d better get to the library now,” I say. “I’ve got a book report due soon.”
5:15 P.M.
Yin-Yin always wants to know everything that is going on, but I still haven’t told her about Emily. I haven’t told anyone. It’s like the most wonderful secret. I’m afraid to talk about it in case I jinx it. Besides, Yin-Yin might tell my mom and then my mom would get all weird and my dad would probably tell me to stop thinking about Emily and start thinking about college.
Instead I tell Yin-Yin about Number the Stars.
“… and so their neighbors, who were also their friends, tried to hide the Jewish family so they wouldn’t be captured by the Nazis.”
Yin-Yin gets quiet. “That was not so long ago,” she says. “Things were very different just a few generations back. It is important not to forget.”
“Were things different for you?”
She hesitates. “I’m a first-generation Chinese-American. Your father is second generation, and you are third.
“My parents left China long ago. They never m
eant to stay in America. It was their plan to return to their homeland someday, but that never happened.
“They did their best to raise us as good Americans. It was very hard for them. People didn’t trust them because they were immigrants and looked different. Sadly, many people are still suspicious of immigrants, even today.”
My grandmother has a far-off look in her eyes. I wait for her to continue.
“My parents were hard on me and my brothers because they wanted the best for us. That included making sure I was married. Your grandfather and I had an arranged marriage.”
“What’s that?” I wonder, will Emily and I have an arranged marriage?
“It’s when your parents pick who you will marry,” Yin-Yin explains.
I shudder. My parents would probably pick Millicent Min for me.
“Your grandfather and I met one week before we were married. He didn’t want an arranged marriage any more than I did.”
“But it turned out okay, right?”
“Well, I had some silly plans that I was never able to follow through on. But that was a long time ago.” Yin-Yin fiddles with one of her birdhouses, then looks up and puts on a smile. “Anyway, I had your father and then your auntie Mary. And my children gave me you and Sarah and your cousin Jordan. So yes, it turned out great, and you turned out great! Come here, you.”
She opens her arms to hug me and doesn’t let go for a long time.
AUGUST 6, 4:12 P.M.
“What now?”
“Who is that supposed to be?” Millicent points to my notebook. “Some sort of monster in a dress?”
I slam it shut. I drew pictures of Emily all over the inside cover. No one’s supposed to see that.
“It’s nothing, just some doodles.”
Millicent is still looking at me like I smell or something. I sniff my armpit, but it doesn’t reek. She looks horrified. What is with her? I’ll bet her farts stink as bad as everyone else’s. She probably does the SBD kind. You know, Silent But Deadly.
Last year the Roadrunners had this really great fight over whether your own farts smell as bad to you as they do to other people. Tico and I were firmly on the side of your farts smelling worse to others. Digger, Stretch, and Gus claimed that all farts smell the same no matter who deals them.
