by Yee, Lisa
“Who did that to you?” Ramen asks as he examines my head the next day. “It looks like a wig. Is it a wig? It’s a wig, isn’t it? Your hair’s never been fluffy before. It’s usually flat and greasy.”
“Stop it!” I slap Ramen’s hand as he tugs on my hair.
“You don’t look like you,” he says, frowning. “Who are you trying to be?”
“I’m not trying to be anyone,” I snap back.
“Well, maybe that’s your problem,” Ramen says.
A couple of girls in math smile at me. Is it a fluke? Is it the new haircut? Is it the Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot win?
I smile back at them, and they giggle, but not in a mean way.
A guy who hangs out with Dean Hoddin points to me and says to his friend, “That kid is really fast.”
No one graffitis my locker.
No one punches me.
No one makes fun of me. Well, except for AV Club members.
I stand on a chair and take down the cookie jar shaped like Captain Kirk’s head from the shelf in my closet. Crumbled bills, including a couple of twenties, spill out onto my bedspread. I had been saving forever for the Star Trek Convention, but, well, I’ve got something else in mind for the money now.
Cedra pulls up in the Dial-a-Ride van. As usual, there’s no one else in it. “I’m off the clock in an hour.” She takes a drag on her cigarette, ignoring the PLEASE DO NOT SMOKE sign.
“So does that mean you can’t take me?”
“No, just that whatever you’re doing will have to be done in an hour, ’cause I got plans. Where are we going?” When I tell her, she gives me an odd look. “Okay, Mr. Sulu, let’s go,” she says, adding, “I like what you did to your hair. You look decent.”
I hope she can’t see me blushing.
The Paradise Mall is huge. We have a smaller mall in Rancho Rosetta, but everyone knows that for the really trendy stuff you have to go to Paradise. I’ve only been here a couple of times before. When I was in third grade, Stanford’s mom took us here. I remember her buying him lots of clothes and stuff he didn’t even want.
The last time I was here was with my father. We had gone to buy golf clubs for Mom. But after about ten minutes, Dad started breathing really fast and broke out in a sweat, and we had to leave. It was probably for the best anyway. Dad ended up getting the clubs at the golf course pro shop. They were the wrong size, but my mom exchanged them. My mother is not a Paradise Mall kind of person either. Mom’s always saying that the best gift she ever got is me. She’s corny like that.
It’s like another planet here. The bright lights are blinding and there appear to be mini-dramas going on in the holiday window displays. One has three mannequins wrapped in ribbons all looking at a giant stuffed cow. The massive escalators transport shoppers up and down, and strollers that look like small fire engines are stuffed with snot-nosed kids gripping balloons.
When I spot the RX59 store, I hesitate before stepping inside. Music blasts so loud that I cover my ears. It’s only then that I realize I’ve got my Spock ears on. I take them off and slip them into my pocket where they join Captain Jean-Luc Picard. He’s not from TOS, but I’m not a total elitist when it comes to Star Trek. Plus, he’s French, and according to Gamma Girl, the French are very stylish.
A couple of girls who look like those super skinny models with giraffe legs glance at me as I stand in the doorway trying to figure out what to do. The store resembles the basement of the Rialto before I cleaned it up. It’s dark, and there’s an old bike hanging from the ceiling, and pool cues and junk are on the walls. This is supposed to be trendy? The girls continue talking to each other as they straighten the racks. I guess they must work here.
Since no one offers to help me, I have to navigate the store on my own. It takes me a while, but I finally find the exact shirt Seth the Perfect Boyfriend was wearing — rusty brown, short-sleeved, polo style. I choke when I see the price tag. I can’t locate the jeans and ask one of the girls for help. Without saying anything, she hands me the pants and points to the dressing room. I wonder if I should call 9-1-1. She looks like she’s about to die from boredom.
Once I change, I slip on a B-Man jacket and look in the mirror. Maybe I don’t look like Seth the Perfect Boyfriend, but with these clothes and my new haircut, I don’t look like Marley Sandelski either, which is probably a good thing.
For the longest time I stare at the clothes. I can’t afford them all, and even to buy a couple of things would empty my wallet. You’d think that the jeans would be cheaper since they’re ripped and full of holes. As I total up the clothes, the Star Trek Convention flashes before me. This is the first time in five years that it’s in Los Angeles. Rumor has it that Chris Pine, Zachary Quinto, and maybe even J. J. Abrams, the director, will be there. Even I have to admit, the 2009 Star Trek movie was pretty great. It hinted that Spock and Uhura had a relationship when they were at the Academy.
Emily’s face flashes before me. Her smile and sparkly eyes make me melt, and before I know what I’m doing, I walk out of RX59 with a new shirt and B-Man jacket.
“Marley, where were you?” Cedra’s leaning against the van. She tosses her cigarette butt onto the ground and stubs it out with her the pointy part of her boot. After I tell her I am sorry for the hundredth time, Cedra sighs. “Okay, well, now I’m late, so I suppose you’ll just have to come with me.”
Cedra parks the van in front of Teague’s Tattoo Parlor in a seedy part of town and we go inside. There are drawings lining the walls — anything you can think of, eagles, angels, movie stars, and dogs, lots of dogs. A big bald man wearing a leather vest comes out from behind a curtain of beads. His belly hangs over this belt and his beard covers half his face. He has a tattoo of a brain on the top of his head. I am trying not to freak out.
Cedra starts screaming and I bolt toward the door. That is, until she yells, “NICK!” and rushes him like a bull. He catches her and swings her around. They kiss and I turn away.
“Marley,” she says as he’s still carrying her, “this is my boyfriend, Nick Teague. Nick, this is Marley. His mom’s that blind golfer I’ve told you about.”
He growls at me and says to Cedra, “You’re late. I penciled you in for five P.M.”
Cedra turns to me and says breathlessly, “I’m getting another tattoo!”
As Cedra and Nick talk, I look around. A perfect likeness of Spock stares at me from the wall. Not that I’d ever get a tattoo, but if I did, where would I put it, I wonder? Lots of people have tattoos on their chests, but mine is so bony. I could put it on my bicep, if I had one.
Cedra settles into the barber’s chair as Nick slips rubber surgical gloves over his massive hands. When he revs up the tattoo gun or whatever it’s called, I’m reminded of the dentist’s office. There are little cups of color on the tray next to him. Robotically, Nick shoots the tattoo gun into Cedra’s ankle, like he’s giving her a shot, only he keeps doing this over and over again, sometimes pausing to wipe some of the ink off her skin.
Cedra winks at me and I turn away. I can’t watch. I feel like fainting. When Nick is done, Cedra holds her leg in the air and admires her new chili pepper tattoo. “Baby, you’re a true artist,” she coos.
Under his beard, Nick blushes.
“Don’t be scared of his looks, Marley,” Cedra tells me. “Nick’s really a big old softy.”
“What about you, kid? You got a girlfriend?” Nick asks.
“No, sir,” I say.
“Well, then you should get a tattoo. Girls love tattoos. They’ll be falling all over you. You want one?”
I gulp as I shake my head. “I … I don’t think so. I’m not what you’d call the tattoo type. Plus, it looks like it hurts.”
“It won’t hurt,” Nick assures me. “This hurts.” He pulls his lower lip down and inside is a skull and crossbones tattoo. I wince. “I can give you a temporary tattoo using henna — that’s a stain, sort of like paint, but it lasts longer. There’s no pain, I promise.”
A sly grin crosses Cedra’s face. “Aw, c’mon, Marley, live a little. It might be fun to do something different, don’t you think? What do you say? My treat.”
“A tat! You got a tattoo?” Ramen yells as we meet up in the morning at my locker. “I want one. Oh man, I want one!”
“It’s not a real tattoo,” I explain. It does look pretty cool. “It’ll fade eventually.”
“Let me see that,” Max says, yanking on my hand and turning it over. “WWSD? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lemme guess, lemme guess,” Ramen says. “Weird Wacky Death Star?”
“That would be WWDS,” Max corrects him.
“It stands for What Would Spock Do,” I inform them as I admire the letters on the palm of my hand.
Both nod slowly. “That is pretty cool,” Max concedes. “I can see getting a WWBD tattoo.”
“I want a WWYD one,” Ramen chirps up. “What Would Yoda Do?”
“Think of your own tattoos,” I tell them. “This one’s mine.”
It’s weird, but things are going well at school. No one has defaced my locker in a while. It’s sort of odd to see it looking so blank; I hardly recognize it. No one’s beating me up either. I noticed that when some of the kids say hi to me in the hallway, it’s like a chain reaction, and others do too. Plus, today I saw Emily Ebers three times. She didn’t see me two of those times since I was hiding, but she did see me as I was coming out of science class and, get this, she waved first!
Later, Ramen and I are heading to AV Club, when James Ichida yells from across the courtyard, “Yo, Sandelski!”
“Yo, you yo-yo!” Ramen yells back. “Yo, yo, you, you, yo, yo —”
“Stop it,” I hiss as I wave to James.
“Why?” Ramen asks.
“Because you’re embarrassing me. I don’t want him to think we’re geeks.”
“But we are geeks,” Ramen says. “Or have you forgotten?”
I’m in the Transporter Room and I’ve got my new shirt and B-Man jacket on. I haven’t worn them to school yet. I want to practice wearing them at home first, you know, to get used to them. I can’t remember the last time I had brand-new clothes.
This Gamma Girl article claims that girls love getting notes from guys — that a note can automatically ramp up a guy’s cool factor by 47%. Should I write Emily telling her how I feel? Or would that be lame? It would probably be lame. I look at my WWSD tattoo and think back to Star Trek: TOS, Season One, Episode 25, “This Side of Paradise.” In it, Spock experiences love. Granted, it was because he was under the influence of spores from a strange flower. Still, he later says, “For the first time in my life, I was happy.”
Okay. So that’s twice Spock has been shown having feelings for a girl. Maybe I should write Emily a note. I don’t know. Wait, how about this? I’ll write her a note and not give it to her.
I wonder if that counts?
Hi, Emily!
It’s me, Marley Sandelski, your partner from Home Sciences, the one who wore the gown. I’m the boy who won the Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot, and you congratulated me and gave me a hug. We also say hi to each other in the halls on a somewhat semi-frequent basis.
I just wanted to let you know that I think you are really nice. Really, really nice and that I think you are a really nice person.
Your friend, I hope,
Marley Sandelski, from Home Sciences for two weeks
I reread the note about a hundred times, then add …
P.S. It’s possible I may like like you. Do you think you could like like me back or would that be gross or something? Because if it is, then never mind.
Then I take the note, fold it up, and hide it in my history book.
In P.E. we’re having relay races. The captains are arguing over who gets me on their team. Only this time, they all want me. When my team wins with me as the anchor, everyone cheers. I’m not sure how to react, so I raise my hand to make the Vulcan signal. When I do, my teammates high-five me.
Coach Martin asks me to join the track team again.
This time I tell him I’ll think about it.
“… and so, this week’s test will account for a huge portion of your history grade,” Ms. McKenna explains.
Digger leans over and whispers, “I hope we do well.”
At lunch Max and Ramen keep gawking at me like I’m a Ferengi, the clownlike extraterrestrials who annoy the Star Trek Federation.
“What?” I plead. “Somebody say something!”
“Well, clearly something weird is going on with you,” Ramen says. “Weirder than normal, that is, which already has a pretty high weird factor.”
“Like what?” I ask. He is so annoying.
“Like your hair,” Max points out. “Plus, you’re wearing mall-rat clothes. What’s with that?”
I look at Max in her Batman shirt, jeans, and sneakers. She could use some sprucing up. Even though we’ve determined that she’s a girl, she still dresses like a boy.
Ramen gets serious. “I never thought I’d ever say this, but I miss seeing you in a your stupid Star Trek shirts.” He grabs my collar and cries, “Bro, are you going over to the Dark Side?”
I let out a long sigh. “Has it ever occurred to either of you that I just wanted to take pride in my appearance?”
Upon hearing this, Max and Ramen crack up. But when Stanford Wong approaches, both immediately stop laughing.
“Hello!” Max says to Stanford. “We have math together! Homework is hard! Do you like Batman?”
I try not to smile when Stanford replies, “Uh, I’m more into Star Trek.”
He’s almost my height, only he’s way more muscular. You can tell because he’s wearing a Lakers jersey, probably to show off his biceps and to let everyone know he’s on the basketball team. And if that doesn’t make it obvious enough, he’s also carrying a basketball.
“Marley, can we talk?” Stanford asks.
“Sure,” I answer. I look at my WWSD for strength, then slip my hand into my pocket.
Stanford glances at Max and Ramen, who are both just staring at him. “Um … alone?” he says.
“Trekkies suck!” Ramen shouts after us as Stanford and I walk over to the fountain.
“Nice B-Man jacket,” Stanford tells me. “Did you get it at RX59?”
I nod. He came all the way over to this side of the world just to tell me that? Why does he want to talk to me? Why?
“Marley, you’re probably wondering why I want to talk to you.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t.”
“Oh, okay,” Stanford says. “Um, Coach Martin wants you to join the track team. He thinks you’d be really good on it.”
“Why are you asking me?”
“I overheard Coach talking to James Ichida — he’s the team captain, and when I told them that I knew you, Coach asked me to convince you. Will you join?”
“What do you think?” I’m still not sure why Stanford Wong is bothering to talk to me after all these years.
“I think he’s right. Everyone knows how you broke the school record in the Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot. That’s major, Marley. I don’t understand why you’re not jumping at the chance to be on track. All the other guys had to try out. Lots of them didn’t make it. You — you’re being handed a spot. That’s, like, unheard of. Most athletes have to work really hard to get noticed. They sacrifice.”
Like you, Stanford? I want to say. What did you do to get where you are? What did you sacrifice? A friendship, maybe? Years of resentment begin to bubble up slowly. I try to push it back down.
“I … I’m not … How can I say this? Stanford, remember when we were elementary school?” He nods. “And when those kids let you play basketball with them, you changed. You turned on me. We used to be friends.”
Stanford’s eyes cloud over. “Think about joining the team,” he says, like he hasn’t heard anything I said. “It’s a great way to make friends and belong. Just think about it, Marley. It could change your life. People wouldn’t laugh at
you anymore.”
“Do you laugh at me, Stanford?”
He shakes his head. “I would never do that.”
I want to believe him.
“What did he say? What did he say?” Ramen asks when I return. “What did he say?”
“Did he ask about me?” Max says. “We have math together.”
“He wanted to talk about the track team,” I answer.
Max looks disappointed. “Well, are you going to join?”
“Probably not, but I’m thinking about it,” I say truthfully.
“If you join, you’d get popular,” she muses. “And you’d eat in the cafeteria.”
Ramen looks like he’s about to explode. “That’s right! First you get a haircut, then you change clothes. What’s next, having some brain cells removed so you can lower yourself to the jock mentality? You know, you’d have to quit the AV Club since sports starts in sixth period then goes all afternoon. Before you know it, you’ll forget us dorks hanging out by the broken bench and the muddy Tragic Tree.”
“Who are you calling a dork?” Max says defensively. “I don’t mind being called a geek, because geeks know their sci-fi and tech. But a dork? That’s just another word for loser.”
The three of us are quiet. Then Max says almost in a whisper, “You should do it, Marley. This is your chance to be somebody. At this school, jocks rule. You could be one of them.”
“Great!” Ramen says, shoving his noodles into the trash can. “What are you doing, Max? Why are you telling him that? Don’t you know? Jocks don’t hang around people like us. They don’t talk to Bat fans or Star Wars kids. They despise our kind!”
“I didn’t say I’d join,” I insist. “I just said I was going to think about it.”
“Right,” Ramen snaps. “I have one word for you … Lando Calrissian, Star Wars: Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back —”
“That’s more than one word,” Max points out.
“Lando gave up his friend Han Solo to Boba Fett. Yeah, you heard it, Lando was a traitor!”
