by Lisa Yee
I hesitate, but he’s asking and he may never ask me again. “Well, it sure does seem like you’re mad a lot.”
“I have a lot of pressure on me,” he says. Suddenly Dad doesn’t sound like he is in charge. He sounds like me when I’m making excuses. “My job is very stressful. But I am doing it for you two and for Sarah. If I get this big promotion —”
I cut him off, “Then you will have more stress and see even less of us.”
My mother covers her mouth like she’s hiding a laugh.
My father looks at the clock. “Stanford, you’d better get to bed. We can continue this conversation later.”
“But I want to talk now,” I plead.
He’s already standing up. “It’s after two A.M. and I’m all talked out. Come on, let’s go.”
Both parents escort me to my room, as if afraid I might run away again. My mother tucks me into bed and gives me a kiss. I am too tired to protest. My father stays after Mom has left. “Stanford,” he says, “running away doesn’t solve anything.”
“Hiding doesn’t either,” I tell him.
Instead of getting upset, Dad nods. “Point well taken.”
After he’s gone, I get up and dial Emily’s number. I hang up before the phone rings. Lavender is talking. Does she ever sleep? “To all my listeners out there at this lonely hour of the night, just know that when you listen to Lavender, you’ve got a friend….”
Through the wall I can hear the murmur of my parents’ voices. They don’t sound angry. Not this time. Reaching across the bed, I turn down the volume on my radio and strain to listen to what they are saying. I fight hard to stay awake but in the end finally surrender to sleep.
8:59 A.M.
SSSSpy sneaks across the school yard and slips into Mr. Glick’s room. He has to sit near the front today because Mr. Glick is still insisting his students play musical chairs. SSSSpy has already sat in every seat in the room.
Mr. Glick is collecting our book reports. All of a sudden class is over. SSSSpy opens his eyes. Mr. Glick is at his desk grading papers. The room is empty of other students.
“You fell asleep, Mr. Wong,” Mr. Glick says. “That hasn’t happened in a long time.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I was up really late last night.”
“Studying for the final exam?”
I don’t answer.
“You know, Stanford, you failed your first Holes book report. Did you read the book this time?” I nod. “Good.” Mr. Glick smiles. “Stanford, I hope you know that I’m rooting for you.”
3:30 P.M.
At the library Millicent Min looks up at me and doesn’t even try to hide how much she hates me.
“Did you hand it in?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Did you do a good job?”
“Yes.”
“All right then.” Millicent whips out her calculator and starts stabbing the buttons. “Stanford,” she says, “let’s assume you get a C on your Holes book report. You’ve done a decent job on your papers, but because of some of your test grades, and the fact that you didn’t turn in a lot of your homework assignments, your entire grade rests on your final exam. In order to pass English, you must get a C-minus or above tomorrow. Anything less than that and you will flunk.”
The last three words ring in my ears. You will flunk. You will flunk. You will flunk. She just had to say that, didn’t she? Millicent Min thinks she’s so smart. Just once, I’d like to see her fall apart. Wouldn’t that be funny.
Wait! What’s happening? Millicent is packing up. I win!
She looks at me and shakes her head. What now? I pick up a pen and doodle on my arm. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “I tried calling her, you know.”
Millicent hands me one of her Sharpie markers to draw with. “What did she say?”
I tell her how I hung up the phone before talking to Emily. Millie looks sad for a moment, and I wonder if she is human after all. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she says. “Did you really read The Outsiders before you gave it to Emily?”
There she goes again, thinking I am stupid. “That’s for me to know and for you not to find out,” I say.
“Be that way then.”
Before she leaves, Millicent shoves a paper in my face. “Here, these are the main points you should know for your final. Read it. It will help you. Not that you deserve any help.”
Then she is gone and I am left with my test to cram for and my totally messed-up life to sort out.
11:57 P.M.
It’s late, but I’m up cramming for my final exam. Mom fell asleep on the couch while watching television, so I put a blanket over her and turned the sound down. Dad comes home. He looks exhausted.
“Hi,” I say to him as he sets his briefcase down in the living room.
“What are you doing up?”
“Studying.”
He smiles.
“Hey, Dad, can we talk?” He promised we’d continue our conversation.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Stanford, I’m bushed. Can we do this some other time? You ought to get to bed and get some rest for your test tomorrow.”
“But Dad,” I plead, “this is sort of important.”
“It’s not about basketball, is it?” I shake my head. “What is it then?” he asks.
“It’s about my test.”
He sits down. “Are you prepared? I don’t want you goofing off during the test and getting Mr. Glick mad at you, do you understand?” He stops, then asks, “So what was it you wanted to ask me?”
“Nothing,” I mumble. “Never mind.” Why can’t he just wish me good luck?
He turns the volume up on the television. My mother stirs. I leave as Dad starts flipping through the channels. Mom asks, “Was Stanford just here?”
I stand in the hallway and listen. “Yes, he said he wanted to talk, but I think he was just going to try to get out of taking his test tomorrow.”
“Rick, you should talk to him. He needs you. He’s under a lot of pressure.”
“Kristen, I am under a lot of pressure. The Alderson deal is coming to an end and I’ll find out about the promotion soon. It’s now between me and one other guy. Besides, I did talk to Stanford.”
“Did you lecture him or talk to him?” asks Mom. “He stayed up late to wait for you. You know, he never goes to sleep until he knows you’re home.”
The television shuts off. “Oh, all right,” my father grumbles. “But if he starts making excuses about his grade, I’ll have to tell him a thing or two.”
I run to my room and jump into bed.
“Stanford. Stanford?” My father is knocking at my door. I don’t answer. “He’s asleep,” I hear him tell my mother. “See, whatever he wanted to talk to me about couldn’t have been that important.”
AUGUST 27, 12 P.M.
I was so tired that I almost fell asleep while taking the test.
Mr. Glick asks me to stay after class. I expect a lecture. Instead he says, “Stanford, I’ve just finished grading your Holes report. Would you like it back now?”
Do I want it back? I guess so, since I am making my way up to his desk. He hands me my paper. I look down at my grade and then lock eyes with Mr. Glick.
“You got what you deserved,” he says, breaking into a smile. “A B-plus. Nice work.”
I smile back.
I leave his room and start running. I’m surprised to find myself at the library. Millicent’s not here. Why would she be?
I sit in the periodicals section and just look around. Then I get up to leave. I remember to thank Mrs. Martinez on my way out. “My pleasure, Stanford,” she says. “I hope you’ll visit me during the school year.”
“Uh, sure,” I tell her. Then I add, “Mrs. Martinez, would you like to see my book report?”
She nods as she reads it. “Very nice, Stanford. I can see why you got a B-plus!” I can’t stop grinning. “I was hoping y
ou’d stop by,” she adds. “I took the liberty of getting this for you.”
Mrs. Martinez hands me something. It’s a library card with my name on it.
4:47 P.M.
It’s like this whole summer is coming down to the last minute of the last quarter of the biggest game of my life. I have no idea how I did on the final exam. The game could go either way.
I feel nauseous, like the time Stretch and I ate all those frozen fish sticks and then drank hot chocolate to see if they’d cook in our stomachs. I have so much stuff going on in my head, Dad would be shocked.
Last night a guy named Junior called Lavender. He dumped all this stuff out about how he was a jerk and his wife left him and took the dog. After speaking with Lavender, he told her he felt better, and she played a song just for him.
“Sometimes,” Lavender explained, “it helps to talk to someone. Thank you for choosing me, Junior. I care about you.”
I thought about calling Lavender and using a fake name like Top Cop does all the time. I picked the name Scott Alan. Then I chickened out. What if someone recognized my voice?
If I don’t talk to someone soon I might explode. But who? Can’t talk to my parents about my parents. Can’t talk to Emily about Emily or the guys about the guys. Can’t talk to Mr. Glick about Mr. Glick or Yin-Yin about Yin-Yin, and Millicent hates me. Who’s left?
“Sorry, Stanford, Mimi isn’t working today,” the desk lady tells me. “Is this about your hair? Have you been using enough product? It looks a little flat.”
“Never mind,” I tell her. I slap seven dollars on the counter. “This is for Mimi. I’ll bring in more next week.” I take three mints out of my pocket. “And these are for you.”
The desk lady smiles widely. “I’ll be sure to let Mimi know you were here.”
As I step outside I am blinded by the sunlight. Suddenly I see a vision. No, wait! It really is Emily. I turn into SSSSpy and tail her. For two blocks she puts money in every parking meter. Then, as quickly as she appeared, she’s gone.
What’s that about? As if I’m not confused enough.
I don’t know what to think or who to turn to. Then it hits me. I check my shoe. Sure enough, the phone number is still there.
5:20 P.M.
Coach Martin is wearing referee clothes. His whistle hangs around his neck. “Did you just ref a game?” I ask. We are outside The Locker Room, the biggest sporting-goods superstore in Rancho Rosetta. It’s where I get my basketballs.
Coach laughs and looks at his shirt. “No,” he says. “This is my uniform. Teachers don’t get paid when they don’t teach, so I always get a summer job at The Locker Room.” We walk over to the curb and sit down. “Speaking of summer, how are you doing in Mr. Glick’s class?”
I hesitate and then it all pours out in spurts. “Mr. Glick … flunk … Emily … lie … stupid … Mom and Dad … fight … Yin-Yin … dim sum … Digger … blackmail —”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down there,” Coach Martin says. “We’re both going to be on overload in a moment. Stanford, let’s take these one at a time, okay?”
I wonder if I am going to cry. Man, why do I always start to cry? This is so embarrassing. I suck it up, slow down, and tell Coach about my horrible summer. He listens as I go through all the reasons why my life is a total failure.
When I am done, Coach whistles. “Well, son, you certainly do know how to keep busy. You know, no one can solve your problems for you. But maybe I can help you put some of this in perspective. That is, if you are willing to listen.”
I sigh. “Bring it on.”
“Life is sort of like basketball,” Coach Martin begins. “There are a lot of guys on the court, each with his own agenda. So it’s important to know who your teammates are. You may not know what they are going to do, but you know that they are there for you.”
I am hoping that some of this will start to make sense very soon. Why do adults talk in riddles?
“Stanford, the first thing you need to get straight is that you are not stupid. Do you think athletes like Alan Scott and Michael Jordan are rocket scientists?”
I shake my head.
“Right, they’re basketball players,” he goes on. “They might not have been straight-A students in school, but you have to be smart to play well. And Stanford, you play extremely well. You make split-second decisions on the court. You anticipate what the other players are going to do. You know basketball strategy inside and out. A stupid person couldn’t do that, could he?”
I shrug. Maybe he’s got something there. But Coach is not finished. “Stanford, I’m not sure why you think the world is against you. From what you’ve told me, you’ve got a lot of people rooting for you.”
“Right, and I’m going to let them down,” I mumble.
“You are capable of much more than you give yourself credit for,” Coach Martin says. “But until you start believing in yourself, nobody else will.”
What is his point?
“Don’t underestimate your family and your friends like Stretch, Tico, Gus, and even this Emily. They’re your teammates. Be honest with them. They like you for who you are, not what you do.”
“What about Digger?”
Coach hesitates. “That one you will have to figure out for yourself.” He looks at his watch. “I have to go back now — we’re having a big sale on yoga mats and it gets crazy in there. Call me again if you want to talk, okay?”
I nod.
“Stanford,” Coach Martin adds before disappearing into the store, “I probably know you better than you know yourself. You have great leadership qualities. You don’t hog the ball and you always give others credit. That’s one of the reasons I picked you for the A-Team, because of what a great teammate you are.” He hesitates, then adds, “Stanford, I would suggest you put yourself back into the game.”
AUGUST 28, 9:11 A.M.
Mr. Glick looks solemn as he passes back our finals. He stops at my desk. From the look on his face, I know I’ve blown it. I’ve failed English, not once, but twice.
“Mr. Wong,” Mr. Glick says without expression. He puts my test facedown on the desk. “I’d like you to stay after class. There’s something important we need to discuss.”
I slump back in my chair. My face is burning. Finally I pick up my test and slowly turn it toward me.
I choke. I do not believe what I see … a C-plus!!! I got a C-plus on my final exam. That means I passed! That means I don’t flunk the sixth grade. That means I will play basketball on the A-Team for Rancho Rosetta Middle School!
Mr. Glick lets the class out early. “No sense in sitting in here all day,” he says. “Go out and enjoy what little’s left of your summer vacation.”
Everyone is in a hurry to leave but me. As hard as I try, I cannot stop grinning. “You did it,” he says proudly. “Stanford, you made it. Congratulations!”
He extends his hand. I extend mine, and we shake. Then he walks to his desk and starts packing up his briefcase. He has the same one as Millicent.
I hang around for a while, not saying anything. I study the bulletin boards. The READING IS FUN poster is still up. While I would never agree that reading is fun, I would have to admit that reading won’t kill you. I look at the newspaper clipping of Mr. Glick and Millicent Min. At the beginning of summer, I would have never believed that these two would be on my team.
“Mr. Glick?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks,” I tell him, adding, “you know, for the cookies and everything.”
Mr. Glick bursts out laughing. “You’re welcome, Stanford. I’m glad you decided to give me and English a chance.” Then he adds, “Once you gave yourself permission to try, you did okay. You’re a smart kid when you apply yourself. Don’t ever forget that.”
Wow. Mr. Glick said that I am a smart kid.
I am so happy that I forget about SSSSpy and race outside doing zigzags in front of the school. I am free! I am on the A-Team! I am … baamm
mmm!!!!!
Stuff flies in the air. I go down hard. I must have bumped into someone. Oh man, my head hurts. I look over and there’s another kid rolling around on the ground. He’s holding his head too.
“Hey, sorry, man,” I say, rubbing my forehead.
“No, my fault,” he says. “I shouldn’t have been running like that.”
I stare at the kid and he stares back.
“Stanford?”
I feel around for my glasses. “Gus?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Nothing,” I sputter. “What are you doing here?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly.
We both scramble to our feet.
“Nice day,” I comment.
Gus looks up at the sky. “Yeah. It’s going to get really hot, though.”
I nod like he’s said something important.
For the longest time we both just stand in one spot and look at everything except each other. Neither one of us speaks. Finally I confess, “I flunked English and had to go to summer school.”
It feels good to be honest with Gus. Maybe Coach was right about being up-front with my team.
Oh no, Gus is laughing so hard that no sound is coming out. This is exactly why I didn’t want the guys to know. Coach was so wrong. What does he know? Now Gus is hysterical and rolling around on the ground.
“So what?” I mutter. “I passed.”
Gus can barely breathe. He wheezes, “I flunked science and had to take it over again.”
“No way!”
He grabs my ankles and takes me down with him. Now I’m laughing too. We punch each other hard.
“Idiot!”
“Numbnut!”
“Weasel!”
“Toe jam!”
“So is this your ‘summer job’?” Gus asks when he can finally breathe normally.
“Yeah, this is it,” I tell him. “What about mowing lawns? You make that up?”
“Sort of,” he says. “I mow a couple of lawns every afternoon, but I spent my mornings here, trying not to let anyone see me.”
“Me too!” I roar. “You know,” I say, getting serious, “if I flunked English again, I would have gotten kicked off the A-Team.”
