by Lisa Yee
Gus’s eyes get wide. “Get outta here!” he shouts. “You earned your spot on the A-Team.”
“Well, now I did. Now that I passed English.”
“I was afraid I’d get kicked off the B-Team if I didn’t bring up my science grade,” Gus confesses.
We both sit silent. Finally I say, “It wasn’t so bad going to summer school.”
“Yeah.” Gus nods. “It was no big deal. I knew I was going to pass all along. I just didn’t want to mention it because, because …”
“Because there was no point in making a big deal about it?”
“Right!” he agrees. “Plus summer school’s a good thing because if it weren’t for students like us, teachers would be out of a job.”
“It’s not a biggie having to repeat a class,” I tell him.
“Oh, I know,” Gus jumps in. “A lot of kids have to repeat a class. In fact, I heard that almost every kid has to at one time or another.”
“I think I heard that too.” I nod. “There’s no shame in it.”
“Definitely!” Gus pauses. “Stanford,” he says, looking around, “swear on your life you won’t tell anyone I had to repeat science.”
“I swear.”
Without any further words, Gus and I spit into our palms and shake on it.
11:07 A.M.
It’s fun to shoot hoops with Gus. No one’s keeping score. Nothing’s holding me back. I even spill my guts about Digger. Just as I make a hard shot clear across the court, I see him coming our way.
“What?” Gus asks. Before I can answer, he spots Digger. “You can’t let him be the boss of you,” Gus whispers. “Besides, you passed. You’re on the A-Team. He can’t blackmail you anymore!”
“Yeah, but if Stretch and Tico find out I’ve lied all summer …”
Gus moans, “I know. Tico will hate my guts.”
“Give me the ball,” Digger orders.
“Yes sir!” Gus replies, shoving it hard into Digger’s chest.
“Let’s just shoot free throws,” Digger says, “and see who can get the most in a row. I’ll go first.”
“One, two,” Gus counts. “Okay, my turn.”
He misses his first shot and tosses the ball to me just as Tico and Stretch walk up.
“One, two …,” Gus counts.
Digger clears his throat to get my attention, but I ignore him.
“Three, four, five … looks like Stanford’s the winner,” shouts Gus.
We play a few more games of H-O-R-S-E, and each time I win, Digger turns a deeper shade of red.
“Hey, guys,” I say, tossing the ball to Tico. “I gotta go see my grandma. We’re having lunch at her place today.”
“Don’t choke on your food,” Digger says.
“Thanks for your concern,” I tell him. “It’s nice to know you care.”
12:12 P.M.
It’s International Food Festival Day at Vacation Village, something the perky ladies have dreamed up. The whole place is decorated with flags from different countries. Everyone who works here is wearing funny-looking outfits, and someone hands me a sombrero. “It’s a Small World” is playing over and over again. I’ll never get that song out of my head.
I spot my mother. She looks really sharp in her navy blue suit. She’s wearing one of those French hats that look like Frisbees.
“Stanford!” she says.
I rush up to her. “Mom, I passed. I passed!”
“Oh, honey,” she says in a way that makes me choke up. “You did it!”
“I’m going to the seventh grade,” I tell her. “I made the A-Team.”
“Stanford.” My mother brushes some dirt off my shirt. “You have always been on the A-Team, with or without basketball.”
What a mom thing to say.
“I thought you had work?” I ask as we walk toward the cafeteria.
“I do, but this is important to Yin-Yin, so I took some time off.”
“You really like your job, don’t you?”
Mom smiles. “Yes, it’s my version of basketball. Thank you for asking, Stanford. That means a lot to me.” She gives my arm a squeeze and whispers, “Did I tell you that I am so proud of you?”
“Yes, Mother,” I say, trying to sound like it’s no big deal.
We head to the buffet table. Yin-Yin is nowhere in sight. There are mini-pizzas and tacos; there’s sushi and curry. Then we spot the dim sum. “Uh-oh,” Mom says. I grimace.
Mom takes a bite of a shu mai. I take a cha siu bao. We both look at each other and frown. It tastes good, really good. This will not make Yin-Yin happy. She fancies herself the best dim sum chef around.
Just then Yin-Yin appears. “Hi,” she says. She’s dressed in a nice new outfit Mom bought for her. Everything matches. “Did your father make it?”
“No,” I mumble. “The Alderson whatever is coming to an end and he’s got a lot of work.”
“Oh well, that is to be expected,” Yin-Yin chirps as she gives me a hug. “At least you’re here and not someplace you shouldn’t be.”
I hug her back and whisper, “I passed English.”
Yin-Yin lets go of me and looks into my eyes. “You made the A-Team,” she says. “You’re moving up. Guess that teacher of yours wasn’t so bad after all?”
“Naw,” I tell her. “Mr. Glick was okay in the end.”
“Mr. Glick sounds like a person worth knowing.”
I nod in agreement.
“How’s the dim sum?” she asks, taking a plate. Mom and I glance at each other. Yin-Yin bites into a ha gow. “Not bad,” she says.
“It’s not awful,” Mom agrees. “But no one makes dim sum like you.”
“It’s true, Yin-Yin,” I say, backing her up.
Ramon approaches us. “It’s going well, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Wong?”
“You’ve outdone yourself, Ramon.”
He looks nervous. “The dim sum?”
“Wonderful,” she tells him. “Next time I’ll teach you how to make chow fun.”
“I’d love it!” he exclaims, before hurrying off to check on his carnitas.
Yin-Yin turns to us and explains, “Ramon is the perfect person to carry on my legacy. He’s a fine cook on his own, but with my coaching he’s been flourishing.”
“Thank goodness for Ramon,” my mother whispers to me.
We all fill up our plates and are soon joined by Mr. Thistlewaite. “Hello, hello, hello!” he booms. “Mrs. Wong, you’re looking magnificent today.”
Yin-Yin laughs. “You need glasses,” she jokes, and gives him a light punch in the arm.
“Attention everyone!” a perky Vacation Village lady wearing a kimono says. “It’s time for our grand-prize raffle for a new thirteen-inch color television!”
A murmur travels through the room. Yin-Yin and Mr. Thistlewaite put down their plates and take out their raffle tickets.
“And the winner is number one-seven-two-one!!! Will number one-seven-two-one please come forward!”
Everyone claps as Yin-Yin makes her way to the front and blows kisses to the crowd. She’s all smiles as we settle down to eat. “Remember our deal?” she whispers to me. “I won a big prize, so now you have to kiss a girl!”
“Congratulations,” Mom tells Yin-Yin.
“Congratulations to Stanford too,” she replies.
“You are so right!” Mom picks up her water glass and announces to our table, “A toast to Stanford, for passing his English class.”
Mr. Thistlewaite stands up and shouts to the room, “Listen up, everyone! We are doing a toast to Stanford!”
All at once, the Vacation Villagers raise their water glasses and say, “A toast to Stanford!”
“Who’s Stanford?” I hear an old man behind me ask. “Is he that new fellow with the fish tank?”
“I don’t know,” the lady next to him says. “But I’m sure he must have done something wonderful.”
AUGUST 29, 7:30 A.
M.
Even though I can sleep in today, I get up early to be with Dad. He’s already eating breakfast by the time I join him.
“Did Mom tell you?” I ask as soon as I see him.
“Tell me what?” he says, taking a sip of his coffee.
“That I did it. I passed English!”
“Yes, yes, she did mention that.” I wait for him to say more. When he doesn’t, I ask, “How’s your Alderson thing going?”
“We’re almost done. I’ll be glad when it’s over,” he tells me.
I nod. “Me too.” We both eat in silence for a while. “Since I passed, it means I’m still on the A-Team,” I say.
Dad looks at me. “Stanford, is that the only reason you wanted to pass English? So you could play basketball?”
I stir my cereal. Well, it was the main reason. Is there something wrong with that? He’s waiting for an answer. “I really wanted to make the A-Team. Lots of kids are counting on me. And I wanted to pass so you wouldn’t be mad at me anymore.”
“You think I was mad at you?”
“I know you were.”
He sighs. “Okay, maybe I was upset, but for good reason. Your teachers always say the same thing about you: ‘Stanford could do better if he tries.’ And Stanford, let’s face it, you don’t try very hard in school. If you put half the effort into your schoolwork that you put into basketball, you’d be at the head of your class.”
“Well, grades aren’t that important,” I tell him.
“Really now?”
“Yeah, not for what I’m going to be when I grow up.”
“And what’s that, Stanford?”
“I’m going to be myself, only older.”
“Ha-ha, very funny,” my father snorts. “You need to get good grades. This is not some sort of a joke. In this family we don’t flunk.”
“Then maybe I don’t belong in this family.”
Dad looks at his watch. “I don’t have time for this,” he mutters as he grabs his briefcase. Before I can say anything else, the door slams shut.
AUGUST 31, 2:44 P.M.
It’s Fiesta time! The Rancho Rosetta Labor Day Fiesta always marks the end of summer at Wild Acres Amusement Park. I’ve gone to the Fiesta as long as I can remember. I used to go with my parents, but now I go with the Roadrunners. Only a dork would go with his parents.
I meet Gus at the park. We’ll hook up with the rest of the Roadrunners at Wild Acres, but first we’ve got to find some really good sticks, the kind that are smooth, with some give but not too much. Never underestimate the importance of a good stick.
After sword-fighting invisible enemies for a couple blocks, I tell Gus, “You know, my dad asked me if the only reason I wanted to pass English was to play basketball.”
“Was it?”
“At first I thought it was all about making the A-Team. Then I kept thinking about it, and finally figured that I wanted to pass to prove to myself that I could.”
“I know what you mean,” Gus says. “I didn’t want to be known as the guy who flunked science. Plus, my father offered me fifty dollars if I passed.”
“You got paid?”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Don’t tell my dad this, but I would have tried to pass even if he didn’t bribe me.”
From far away we can see Monstroso, the big roller coaster. The music and noise of the Fiesta pull us toward it. We drop our sticks and run inside to look for the rest of the Roadrunners.
It is hard to find anyone, it is so crowded. I like being in a crowd. No one expects anything of me here. I wonder if Emily is at the Fiesta. I hope so. I have some things I need to say to her.
As Gus and I head to the stage we can hear music playing. Maybe I’ll start a band. All the guys will be in it, and of course it will be called The Rockin’ Roadrunners. It doesn’t matter that none of us can play a musical instrument or sing. Just to be in a band automatically raises your cool factor by 5,000 percent.
Gus points to Stretch, Digger, and Tico waving. Only they’re not waving to us, they’re waving to someone else. We inch closer. It is wall-to-wall people. At last, I can see who all the guys are waving to. Oh no, oh no … I can’t believe it! Emily is waving back to them, and Millicent is right behind her.
Hey, if Emily’s not mad at Millie anymore, maybe she’s not mad at me either!
Gus starts pushing through the crowd. “Meet you there,” I tell him. I don’t want Emily to see me just yet. I’m not sure I’m ready to face her. What’s she doing waving at the guys? Is Digger hitting on her? He’s smiling at Emily! Digger better stay away from her!
The band on the stage is full of old guys playing some loopy love song. Emily and Digger are talking. He’s such a scumbag, I’ll bet he’s telling her a bunch of lies about how great he is. I wonder if Millie and Digger recognize each other. I hope not. It’s been about five years since Millie made the salt bomb explode all over him and got herself expelled from elementary school.
Uh-oh. Now I see Digger saying something to Millicent. What if he’s figured out who she is? Wait … I don’t believe it! Digger is taking Millie’s hand and leading her to the dance floor. Millicent looks like she is in severe pain.
Digger and Millie are now dancing, or at least trying to dance. Millicent is even dorkier on the dance floor than she is on the volleyball court. Emily’s smiling at them. It looks like Digger is whispering into Millie’s ear. Either he’s forgiven her or he really has no clue who she is. I move even closer and find myself standing next to Emily.
Suddenly Millie’s briefcase drops to the floor. Millicent shouts, “Get away from me!” and shoves Digger. The couples around them stop dancing and stare.
Digger’s face takes on that look he has before he explodes. “You’re still just a little nerd,” he announces, loud enough to be heard over the music. “You lost me ten bucks!”
Millicent looks totally panicked. I wonder if she’s going to pass out.
I turn to the guys. They all have their hands in their pockets and won’t look up. I spot Marley on the sidelines taking notes in his captain’s logbook. Millicent’s mother is holding on to her father; they look horrified. Emily sees me and starts to say something, but I don’t stay long enough to listen.
“Hold this,” I say, handing her my basketball.
I head to the dance floor. Millicent sees me and turns pale. She squeezes her eyes shut and covers her face.
“Hey, Stan-dude!” Digger says, suddenly smiling. He holds up his hand to give me a high five. With everything that’s happened, he still acts like we’re best friends. “What’s up?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I say, keeping my arms crossed.
Millie peeks through her fingers.
“I just lost me ten big bucks because this geek-a-zoid here can’t dance,” Digger explains, pointing to Millie. “I bet the guys I could get through a whole dance with Miss Smarty-Pants.”
Millicent looks at me. I can tell she’s scared. To both our surprise, I hold out my hand to her. She hesitates and I am afraid she is going to start crying.
“It’s okay, Millicent,” I assure her. “It’s okay.”
Her body slumps. She takes my hand and I give it a small squeeze to let her know I am on her side.
I turn to Digger. “Get lost, loser. Millie knows how to dance, she just doesn’t want to dance with you.”
Digger looks shocked. “Hey, Stan the Man, can’t you take a joke? It’s just that I made a bet and this nerdball —”
“And nothing,” I cut him off.
Digger’s eyes narrow. “You’ll be sorry,” he hisses before disappearing among the dancers.
Without looking at Millie, I put my other hand on her waist and whisper, “Even if you don’t know how to dance, pretend you do.”
I am glad that my mother made Sarah teach me how to dance. As Millie and I march around the dance floor, we both pretend we’re not stomping on each other’s toes. Finally she lo
oks right at me and says, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, adding, “and thank you. In case you haven’t heard, I passed my class.”
Millie gives me a genuine smile. I guess she really is on my team.
It is not totally awful dancing with Millicent Min, though I’d much rather be dancing with Emily. Just as we are getting the hang of it, Mr. Min cuts in. “May I have this dance?”
As Millicent dances with her father, I approach Emily. She keeps looking up at the sky. My guts feel like they are going to burst, but there’s something I have to do.
“Emily?”
“Oh hi!” she says, like she didn’t know I was there. My heart skips a beat when she looks at me.
“I need to talk to you.” I hope she will forgive me. Even if she does not want to like like me, I still hope she will like me. Emily is a person worth knowing. “I lied about tutoring Millicent. It was the other way around.”
“Millie explained everything,” Emily says.
“She did?”
Emily nods.
“And you’re okay with it?”
“I will be.”
“I tried calling you a couple times,” I confess.
Emily bursts out laughing. “I know. We have caller ID.”
Oh man, I could just die, until Emily touches my arm and says, “It’s okay, Stanford. I thought it was sweet that you kept calling. The only thing sweeter would have been if you actually said something.”
“Uh, like what?”
“Gosh, I don’t know. How about, ‘Emily, I’m sorry’?”
“Emily, I’m sorry.”
“Nope, too late!”
I am about to die when she slugs me in the arm and laughs. “Just kidding!”
Wow, I think she like likes me!
I know I should probably ask Emily to dance, but my legs are all rubbery, like when we first met. Good thing she seems content just to stand next to me as we watch the other couples glide past us. Maybe I should hold her hand. But what if she jerks her hand away? What if my hand gets all sweaty? Do people ever use antiperspirant on their hands?
I glance at the guys. They are making kissy faces and pretending to swoon. I decide not to hold Emily’s hand for now. It is far too dangerous.
Emily leans in to me to tell me something. “I like your hair,” she says. “Especially the purple.”
