by Yee, Lisa
“Didn’t he redeem himself later?” asks Max.
Ramen ignores her. He’s too busy yelling at me, “You think about it, Marley! You think about being a traitor. And then when you’re hanging around the popular kids, you think about how it feels to be made fun of by them.”
My face flushes. “No one said I’d be popular, and even if I was, what’s so wrong with that? I sort of like it that people are nice to me and that they know I won the Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot. Don’t you think I get tired of being one of the nobodies?”
Ramen staggers backward. “So that’s what you think of me? That I’m a nobody?”
Before I can apologize, he storms off.
Max is quiet, but from the way her face is all screwed up, I can tell she’s thinking about something. The knot growing in my stomach threatens to consume me.
“We … are not … nobodies,” she finally says. Her voice cracks. Our eyes meet. “Not to each other. But, Marley, you need to do what’s right for you. I won’t hold it against you. If you have a chance to sit at the popular table, grab it. Just don’t forget us, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper.
I’m in the Transporter Room doing my homework. Now that I’m getting an A in P.E. for the first time in my life, I have a good chance of getting all A’s and making the Principal’s List.
I have my B-Man jacket on over my BEAM ME UP, SCOTTY shirt. I can hear one of Mom’s students pounding on the piano. This one isn’t half bad. My father stops by carrying two fruit smoothies. He hands me one. Mango orange banana. “I like what you’ve done down here,” Dad says, surveying the room.
“Thanks,” I reply.
We sip our smoothies in silence. Then I ask, “How’s business?
“Normal. Slow.”
I use my straw to poke at the smoothie that’s stuck to the bottom of the cup. “Do you think it will get better?”
My father sets his cup down. “I hope so. I’ve got some new ideas I want to try. If you come up with any brilliant ideas, don’t keep them to yourself, okay?”
“Okay,” I assure him.
“Marley,” he says, “keeping the Rialto going is your mom’s and my business. Your job is to take care of yourself, and to know that we are always here for you.” Dad tousles my hair before he leaves, then looks at his hand. I’ve been using hair gel.
I open my history book and take out the letter I wrote to Emily. Should I give it to her? She smiled at me today, and —
“Marley?”
I look up. It isn’t Dad.
I shove the note into my book, slam it shut, then sit on it. “What are you doing here?” I stutter.
“Your father said I would find you here,” Stanford says.
From where he’s standing in the doorway, I can only see his silhouette, like he’s a ghost. But I’d know him anywhere.
“Okay?” I answer. This is beyond weird.
“It looks great down here. It used to be all dusty and dirty, remember?”
I nod. I remember.
Stanford paces nervously around the room like a caged animal, or a basketball player. He checks out my Star Trek action figures, touching each one. I try not to wince when I see him looking at all the warm fuzzies. With any luck, he’ll think they’re Tribbles, the furry little creatures from TOS.
Finally, Stanford puts down the brown paper bag he was carrying and reaches into his pocket. “I think this belongs to you,” he says. “I found it on the bleachers after the Hee-Haw Game.”
I grab my red Captain’s Log out of his hands. “You found it?” I ask as I hold it tight. “Did you read it?”
Stanford looks away. “No,” he says. “Not really. I don’t know.”
I can’t believe that Stanford found my Captain’s Log. I can’t believe I got it back. I open to the last page. It reads, “Attacked by the evil Gorn. Shunned by the powerful residents of planet Mercury. Danger lurks at every turn. Prepare for the Seventh Mission.”
Then I turn to the first page. There it is … i-n-v-i-s-i-b-l-e. Invisible. The word I wrote to describe myself.
“Wait,” I say. “You mean you’ve had it all this time?” He nods. “Why didn’t you give it back sooner? Why did you wait?” Surprise gives way to anger.
“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “I wasn’t going to return it. Then, after our talk yesterday, I guess I figured I should. I mean, I was going to give it to you on the first day of school, but you seemed so angry, and, well, I know what you think of me.”
We both turn red.
“So you did read it.” My voice is flat. He must think I’m a freak because he’s in it so much. Like on the list of people I think are stuck-up. And on the list of people I think are fake. And on the list of people I hate.
Instead of answering, Stanford hands me the paper bag. “This is for you.”
Cautiously, I look inside. “Why would you give this to me?” I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“That’s a —” Stanford begins.
I cut him off. “I know exactly what it is … it’s a 1988 Star Trek: The Next Generation Galoob Phaser with a light beam/flashlight and intensity control readout. M.I.B., Mint In Box. It was your favorite Star Trek thing when we were little kids.”
“It’s yours if you want it,” Stanford says.
“Why? I don’t get it.”
He stops pacing. “Because I really am sorry for the way I treated you.” Stanford’s voice sounds strained. Good. He should be sorry. “Marley, I know you don’t think much of me. And well … do you really think I’m an idiot and a traitor?”
My grip on the phaser is so strong that I could melt it. “You told me you didn’t read the log book!”
“Well, I did, okay? So I’m a liar. I’m sorry. I am. I’m sorry.”
“So this is like a bribe to get me to forgive you?”
He nods. “Yep.”
“It’s sort of a shallow thing to do, don’t you think?”
He nods again.
I take a deep breath. Stanford looks like he’s in pain and I want this to last. For years, I’ve dreamed of revenge. But now that it’s mine, it doesn’t seem as sweet as I thought it would be. In fact, I’m not really enjoying this at all.
Finally, I tell him, “You did what you had to do — even if it meant selling me out. Still, it was a rotten thing to do to a friend.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry before you forgive me?” Stanford asks.
I give it some thought. “Twenty-nine,” I say, smirking. Right. Like he’s really going to do it. “Twenty-nine times.”
Stanford just stands there looking at me, then nods solemnly. He knows. “Twenty-nine,” he says. “The number of episodes of Star Trek: TOS, first season.”
He takes a deep breath, and to my surprise, Stanford Wong says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
When he’s done, he collapses into my captain’s chair.
I don’t believe it. He did it. The great and mighty Stanford Wong apologized to me, Marley Sandelski, twenty-nine times!
“Now do you accept my apology?” he asks.
“I guess I have to,” I tell him. “A deal’s a deal.”
“Will you do something for me?” Stanford asks.
My body tenses. What if he wants me to do his homework for him, like Digger? Wait. I’ll bet that’s what this is all about. Stanford’s never been a good student. His dad used to get mad at him all the time because of his poor grades.
“No way,” I say.
“‘No way,’ what? I didn’t even ask you anything yet.”
“No way I’m doing your homework,” I tell him. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Did Digger tell you I�
��d do it?”
Stanford’s face hardens. For a moment I’m afraid he’s going to hit me. I brace myself.
“Are you doing Digger’s homework?” he asks angrily. “Because I sure hope you’re not. Digger is a loser.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe I am and maybe I’m not. What’s it to you?”
“Listen, Marley.” Stanford doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks worried. “I don’t know what’s going down between you and Digger, but he’s bad news. Whatever it is that he’s making you do, for whatever reason, don’t do it. He talks a mean game, but there’s nothing there. Do you hear me? There’s nothing there.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I know,” he answers. “Trust me.”
I think about it, then say, “So, what was it you wanted me to do?”
“Just show up to track once. I told Coach I’d get you there.”
“Why is it so important to you?”
Stanford shrugs. “I know what it feels like to be good at something. For me it’s basketball. I’ve seen you run, Marley, and you’re good. You could be the best. But you have to try.”
“Okay,” I say, surprising us both.
“Wow, that’s great. Coach will be happy. Uh, Marley, do you want to keep the phaser?” Stanford asks. “I mean you don’t have to. In fact, you probably don’t want it, so if you want me to keep it, that’s fine, I don’t mind.” He reaches for it. “I can just take it back since I’m sure it’s no big deal for you and —”
“Stanford, thanks for the apologies,” I tell him, adding, “… and for the phaser.”
After he leaves, I open my Captain’s Log. The one I just got back. There are several pages that are still blank. I’ll fill them up before I go back to the new log book.
It’s sixth period. I’m where I should be. Or am I?
“Happy to have you on board,” Coach says, slapping me so hard on the back that I choke on my own spit. “Team, let’s welcome Marley Sandelski, with the fastest Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot time in the history of the school!”
A couple of the guys give me hard looks, but most smile and say hi.
James Ichida walks over to me. He’s about half a foot shorter than me, but everyone knows he’s got speed. “Glad to have you here, Marley,” he says. His voice is deep, like a grown-up’s. “We could use another long-distance man.”
Coach puts us through our warm-up drills — weird things like making us run backward and having us run in small steps with our knees high in the air. Then he shouts “karaoke” and all the guys run crazy, crossing one leg over the other and weaving. I can’t keep up. It’s like P.E., only a million times more intense. None of the other guys seem fazed. At one point I trip over my own feet. When I’m on the ground, two guys come over to help me up and no one laughs at me.
“Okay!” Coach shouts. “Let’s get ready. We’ll do a 400-meter. James, you set the pace. Marley, this isn’t a race, so don’t go all out, okay?”
We take off in a pack. I notice Ramen watching from outside the fence. When I give him a weak wave, he turns his back on me. My hand is suspended in air, until I run it through my hair like that’s what I meant to do all along. What do I care about some idiot Star Wars fan?
Kids are playing soccer in the middle of the field. We run along the outside. I follow James and have no problem keeping up with him. It’s strange running with others. Usually, I run away from people. It feels like everyone is crowding me. I can hear them breathing. I’m dying to break away, but I stay with the group.
When we finish, we gather around Coach Martin. A lot of the guys are bending over with their hands on their knees as they catch their breath. I’m not breathing hard, but I do it too. Coach begins critiquing everyone. When he gets to me, I straighten up. “Marley,” he says, “your kick is all wrong. Work with me and we’ll get it to where it needs to be so that you’ll be killer out there when we compete.”
James leans in. He’s got a tiny mole above his left eyebrow. “You are going to be our supersecret weapon. If you can run as well as you did at the Turkey Trot, we’ll smash the other schools into the ground.”
“Yeah,” Ben says as he does deep knee bends, then swings his arms around, windmill style. He’s a seventh grader, like me, only he’s been running competitively since the fourth grade. Everyone knows that when James goes to high school next year, Ben is in line to be team captain. “We’ve come close to taking the district track title, but have never won. But this is our year. I just know it. And with you on our team, we can’t lose!”
I know this should make me feel good, but instead my stomach churns.
“All right,” Coach is saying. “Now let’s do an 800-meter. This time, I want all of you to go all out. Don’t hold back. Are you ready?” We line up. A couple of guys jostle me. I can’t tell if it’s an accident or on purpose. “Set … go!”
We’re off!
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Coach said it was a race, but the others don’t seem to be running too fast. Maybe they’re pacing themselves. I decide that I’ll do whatever James does. I slow down and run beside him. James and I are near the front, but there are a couple of guys ahead of us.
As we near our final lap, James picks up speed. So do I. We are closing in on the leaders. Suddenly, James pushes forward with a burst of energy. I try to do the same, only it doesn’t feel right. When I’m running on my own, or even when I’m running from the Gorn, I feel good. Instead, right now, I feel panicked. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of my legs, my feet, my arms, every part of me. Still, I keep going, pushing myself.
James comes in first. I’m second. As the rest of the guys cross the finish line, Coach yells, “Good job, everyone! Walk it off. Keep moving.”
I’ve been on the team for over a week now and I’m doing pretty well. We just wear T-shirts and gym shorts when we practice, but Coach says he’ll get me a track uniform in time for my first meet. I have to admit, that’s pretty exciting. Still, something doesn’t feel right.
I love running, but I don’t like racing.
I wonder what they’re doing in AV Club right now?
As everyone heads back to the locker room, some of the guys say, “Good workout, Marley,” and “We’re going to run San Marino into the ground!”
“See you around,” James tells me.
I’m surprised by how nice most of the guys are. I had always thought that all jocks were jerks.
“Marley!” Coach calls out. “Stay behind. Let’s talk.” He’s all smiles. “You looked great out there!”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Coach. I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Well, this was your first week. It’s normal to be nervous in the beginning. Ask any of the boys. But you held your own. It was a great show for someone with no training. Give it some time. You’ll be one of the top jocks in no time.”
“No, that’s not it,” I struggle to explain. “It’s … it’s just that, I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. When I run on my own, it’s great. It’s like flying. But when I race, I feel pressured to win.”
“That’s understandable, Marley,” Coach assures me as he writes something on his clipboard. “If you didn’t feel any pressure, then I’d be worried. Winners have that in common, and they’re able to channel the pressure of competition to do even better. A lot of athletes even throw up before a big game or meet….”
This is supposed to make me feel better?
“Can’t I be a winner without racing?” I ask.
“It’s a waste of speed, Marley.” Coach Martin looks up from his clipboard. “I’ve seen you. You were born to run.”
“Being on the track team is all about winning, which means that someone would have to lose,” I try to explain.
Coach Martin stares at me like I’m a space alien. Then he lets out a loud laugh. “You’re an interesting kid. I gotta respect that.” He takes off his baseball cap and massages his head. “Listen, Marley, I’m not going to keep begging you. I
do what’s best for the team. The guys need someone they can count on. If you can be there for them, great. I won’t kid you. We’re out to win. And yes, there will be pressure, especially at track meets. The competition is pretty fierce.
“But if your heart is not in this, don’t do it. You’ve got to love the sport and the competition to do your best. Think about it.”
As I run home from school, I try the new kick Coach taught me. He’s right. It does make me go faster. Each time I push off, I can feel my muscles flexing. My mind is clear and with each stride I feel my tenseness melt away.
I run past the park and over the bridge. I run on the sidewalk that parallels the Gold Line train tracks. I run and I run. My legs are starting to get tight and sweat is dripping from my face, but I feel good. I push myself to go faster and farther.
I know they’re expensive, but I think I’ll ask Mom and Dad for some running shoes from Van Straaten’s Sports Closet for Christmas. Real ones. I’ll need them because I’m going to keep running.
The Gorn still push me around, but I can outrun them as long as I’m not wearing a gown. James Ichida and I had a long talk and he’s cool with my decision, even though he says he doesn’t understand it. Stanford makes a point of saying hi to me in the hallway, which means that other kids do too. Emily continues to talk to me, and I’m using more English and less Klingon around her.
Mom and I are at the driving range. She’s whacking ball after ball. There’s a satisfying thwacking sound each time she hits one. How does she do it?
“I focus,” my mother says. She’s taking a break and I’m drinking my Pepsi. “I block out everything else, so it’s just me and the ball.”
“Hey, Mom …”
“Yes, Marley?”
“Are you and Dad ever going to sell the Rialto?”
She looks surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“I dunno. It’s just that I know it’s not doing that well.”
My mother reaches for my soda and, to my surprise, she takes a sip. “That’s true. I won’t lie to you,” she says, still holding onto my Pepsi. “But we’re going to stick it out as long as we can. We’re not running the theater to get rich.”
