by Mike Jung
“See?” I held up my hands, palms to the sky in a what-are-you-gonna-do gesture. “Zero matches. Zero percent human.”
“But so what? You grew up here; you’ve spent your entire life eating the same terrible food at the Hedge Diner as I have; how are you not human? And what’s with all the sci-fi books?”
“Duh, aliens.”
“Uh, okay. Are you … doing research?”
“Cultural research! Have you ever looked at book covers? I mean, REALLY looked at them?”
Shelley nodded, slowly and unconvincingly. I started grabbing books and waving them in the air.
“Look at this one, Moonrise on Gamma 14 — white aliens! Or this, Perihelion — white aliens again! Or this piece of garbage, Schrödinger’s Schnauzer — more white aliens, plus it’s a terrible book!”
I flung each book down on the bed in front of Shelley, who was looking at me while sitting very still.
“Oh, this one has BLUE aliens, sure, I guess that’s their excuse for giving them blue eyes that are big and round — they’re blue aliens, but they’re really white aliens, right?”
I slammed My Blue Heaven down on the bed with both hands, crossed my arms, and looked at Shelley.
“Right?”
Shelley stared for a second, like she was trying to figure out what to say.
“I guess. Can I ask you a question?”
“What?”
“Do you think you should … I don’t know … maybe see a doctor or something?”
Well, that was unexpected.
“Why? I’m not sick.”
“I mean like a psychiatrist.”
“Oh my god, you didn’t just …” Grrrr. “I’m not mentally ill, Shelley. Do you not believe the alien thing anymore?”
“I totally believe you, that’s actually why I wonder if you should see a psychiatrist or something. Finding out you’re from outer space seems … stressful.”
“Duh, of course it’s stressful.”
“You remember how intense Dana Smithfield was all the way up till third grade, until her mom took her to that doctor in the city and she got so much calmer?”
“Dana has ADHD; she’s less intense because she takes meds. I don’t think they have any ‘stop being an alien’ meds.”
“I’m just saying, it might be more useful than getting all worked up over book covers.”
“IT’S NOT JUST THE COVERS.”
“I know, I know.”
“And what’s with the psychiatrist thing?”
“Well, my mom IS one, you know.”
“So what? That makes you an expert now? You’re going around telling everybody to make appointments with your mom now?”
“No.” Shelley frowned. “But this isn’t, you know, normal.”
Et tu, Shelley? “What do you mean, not normal??”
“I don’t mean …” Shelley sighed. “Come on, you have to admit — ”
“Admit what? That I’m abnormal?”
“You’re an alien, Chloe. I don’t know any other aliens.”
“I guess it was more normal when you thought I was just Korean, huh?” I lurched up and off of the bed hard enough to send papers flying and make Shelley topple over on her side.
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Shelley gave me a hard-core furrowed-brow stare as she pushed herself back up into a sitting position.
“Nothing, it’s just you’re so into my being Korean, but now that I’m from outer space you’re all ‘OMG MENTAL ILLNESS’ and stuff …”
“What are you talking about?? I’m not ‘so into’ your being Korean!”
“You so are. You said how cool being Korean would be, remember?”
You could have shoved a tennis ball into Shelley’s mouth without touching anything, lips, teeth, whatever.
“That was second grade! Have you been holding a grudge this whole time?”
“SO YOU REMEMBER!” I shouted, pointing in triumph. Victory!
Shelley dragged her hands down the length of her face, making her eyes, nose, and mouth go all rubbery for a second.
“You know what, I’m really not in the mood to be yelled at.”
“I’M NOT YELLING.”
“Remember when we used to do fun things like talk about books and not yell at each other like howler monkeys?” Shelley said with a scowl. “I miss those days.”
“Fine, abandon me now that I’m not Korean enough. Whatever.”
“God, Chloe, what’s wrong with you??” Shelley barked. “Why are you being so weird?”
“Oh sure, now I’m weird. LOOK AT THE ALIEN GIRL, SHE’S EVEN WEIRDER THAN WHEN SHE WAS KOREAN.”
“You’re just proving my point,” Shelley said.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said.
“You know what, you’re right. I don’t understand. I just wanted to hang out, but you’re too busy yelling about book covers and acting completely bizarre. Whatever.”
Shelley grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder with a hard, fast twist of her arm. The backpack hit her back hard enough to bounce, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Call me when you’re interested in not being an idiot, okay?” Shelley said in a superhigh, fake-polite voice.
“Why don’t YOU?” I said.
“In your dreams.”
“Fine, see if I care.”
“I can see right now. You don’t.”
Shelley stomped across the house and out the front door, slamming it behind her.
“Whatever,” I muttered. I looked down at the books still scattered on the bed. Paleface aliens as far as the eye could see. Being Korean had never gotten in the way of being friends with Shelley, but now that we both knew what I really was it was like I am Chloe Cho and I do not come in peace. I guess I’d pushed her too far, like using a reverse tractor beam, ha-ha.
I shoved the books off of the bed and flopped down face first.
I stayed there for a long time.
School is a totally different experience when you do everything alone. You talk a lot less, and it takes less time to get from place to place. It’s also more lonely, but hey, what’s lonelier than being an alien from another world?
At least I could talk about being Korean without making people think I’m insane, and Korean people are 100 percent human, not 99.999 percent human like me. I wanted to be all human again. I spent the whole day floating around, thinking about science-fiction book covers, lying rat-fink parents, and DNA tests. Then it was time for orchestra.
Shelley and I avoided each other on the way into orchestra, which we’d been doing in every other class we had together so hey, nothing new there. I sat down, opened my case, and stared at my violin. It was so pretty, and it sounded so good, and Mom only bought it in a desperate try to avoid telling me anything about being Korean! Gah! I poked at the strings, feeling depressed.
“Okay, everybody, let’s start with a few scales.”
I looked up at the sound of Mrs. DeRosa’s voice. Mrs. DeRosa? Why was she conducting today?
“Chloe Cho!”
And why was Mr. C calling me from the door to the office, holding a notepad and a stack of papers, doing a lame punching-the-air thing that was kind of funny even though it was lame?
Oh.
First-chair competition. Crap.
“Bring that shiny new ax on in here,” Mr. C said cheerfully.
I stared down at my “ax,” trying to remember what piece I was supposed to have practiced for the competition. I looked quickly at Adam, who was visibly gulping as he ran a finger over the sheet music on his music stand.
“Uh …” I cleverly said.
“Come on, no time like the present,” Mr. C said.
I got up reeeeally slowly and walked past Mr. C and into the office as the rest of the orchestra started warming up behind me.
The music office is between the orchestra room and the choir room, and since the choir room doesn’t have a class in it at the same time as orchestra, we always do fir
st-chair challenges in there.
“Got your music?” Mr. C said as he walked across the office and opened the choir room door. The choir room is almost identical to the orchestra room, except it isn’t filled with instrument cases and music stands. There was just one stand in there, in front of a pair of empty chairs.
Did I have my music? “I think I left it at home,” I said, which was only a partial lie. I had no idea at all where it was, so it could have been at home, but I’d definitely left it somewhere.
Mr. C clucked his tongue, but he was obviously in a good mood.
“Lucky for you I have a copy of everything,” he said, shuffling through his fistful of paper and fishing out a few sheets that he plopped down on the music stand.
I stood there, suddenly overwhelmed by the strange feeling of not being ready to play — I hadn’t practiced the music at all.
“Mr. C …”
“Yes?” Mr. C said as he adjusted the chairs so he was facing my chair at a right angle from the music stand, so he could see me but I couldn’t see him.
“…”
Mr. C sat down and grinned.
“Not nervous, are you?”
No, just not ready, I thought. I’d been about to ask if I could reschedule my time, but then I thought, Why? Who cares?
So instead I sat down, took out my violin, and sight-read the piece that I hadn’t practiced at all.
In sixth grade I dominated the fall orchestra concert, and I mean total domination — I owned that concert. When it was time for the orchestra to set up I walked out of the orchestra room and onto the stage in my usual state of terror, wishing I’d practiced just fifteen minutes more per day, wanting to make Mom and Dad think That’s our daughter and she is AWESOME without knowing if I actually would, and so on. I fanned out my sheet music on the music stand without letting my hands shake, but just barely.
The real concert, at night, with a real audience, was so much better than playing the school assembly the day before, which was always full of troublemakers making noise and throwing spitballs and stuff. It was also so much worse, because everyone was actually paying attention. When the curtain went up and everyone clapped for us it was exciting and terrifying at the same time.
“Okay, people, let’s dazzle ’em,” Mr. C said, and we did. The fourth-grade fall concert was fun just because it was my first, and the holiday concerts were always fun, even if the actual holiday music wasn’t that hard, but that first sixth-grade concert was the best because EVERYONE played really well. Adam was second chair, of course, and even he sounded good, fancypants violin, perfectly ironed clothes, and all.
When it was time for my solo I took a deep breath, flexed my bow arm once, and dove in, and I realized I was FEELING IT, even though it was in the middle of the hardest piece we’d ever played since I’d started orchestra, and it was also the hardest solo I’d ever played. The sixty hours I’d spent practicing just that solo during the month before the concert really paid off. I was in such a zone that I probably could have played it with my eyes closed. I didn’t miss a single note, even during the thirty-second-note runs; my portamentos were perfectly arched rainbows of sound; and I played the dynamic notations like a boss.
There was a huge burst of applause when I finished the solo, and when the entire string section made a wall of sound on the final crescendo it felt like my heart would burst right out of my chest, like the Incredible Hulk bursting out of his shirt. On the final note Mr. C held both arms way up over his head, his baton in one hand, and when he snapped his arms down we slammed the door on that song as well as it could be done.
We always get standing ovations — I think it’s probably illegal for parents not to give their kids in orchestra a standing ovation — but that one was different. Shelley’s mom and dad practically jumped out of their seats. Mom and Dad were in the third row, and other parents were actually turning around to congratulate them.
Adam bumped me with his elbow. He was grinning so hard it looked like the top of his head would fall off.
“You were AWESOME, Chloe!” he said, and he was so goofily cheerful that I couldn’t help but like him.
“Thanks, Adam!”
“Abigail Yang better watch out, you’re breathing down her neck!”
OH COME ON. Of all the times to pull out the old Abigail Yang thing … I wasn’t surprised, but geez.
Still, even Adam in Clueless Mode couldn’t ruin it when Mr. C caught my eye, gave me a big thumbs-up, turned to the crowd, and gestured for me to stand. That was a first, not just for me, but for anyone during my three years in orchestra. It was the best moment of my entire orchestra career. It was one of the best moments of my whole life.
So you know, I’m used to Mr. C talking to me in a certain way — he jokes around a lot, he keeps talking about Abigail Freaking Yang, but it’s always clear he expects me to be awesome, and I always HAD been awesome, so no problems, right? This time was different, though. He looked … droopy? Like all of his facial hair was hanging straight down.
Oh, right. He looked disappointed.
“Chloe, I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to have this conversation with you unless some hotshot new kid joined the orchestra,” Mr. C said, looking sadly at me from behind his desk. “You’ve always been so far ahead of the pack.”
I lost, I thought.
Did I care?
“Adam Wheeler won first chair,” he said, sounding more businesslike. “I know he worked really hard for it” — emphasis on worked really hard, and oh look, another first; no teacher had dropped hints about working hard to me before — “and you’ll get the chance to win it back next year, of course.”
“Okay,” I said. Mr. C’s eyebrows went up.
“Is something going on?” he said. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”
“Fine.”
“If there’s anything — ”
“I’m fine.”
Mr. C blew out a breath, which made his mustache flutter for a second, and shook his head.
“Okay, well, I hope that’s true. Second chair is just as important as first chair, you know, and I — ” Pause. “ — trust you to do a great job at it.”
I cared, but I also didn’t care, you know what I mean? At least I thought I didn’t care, but then I walked out of Mr. C’s office into the orchestra room, saw everyone milling around, saw Adam sitting in the first-chair seat, and realized I couldn’t tell him to get his sorry butt out of it.
Oh right, I did care, and it was too late. I was second chair. I was a LOSER.
Adam and Phil Leder were talking with big smiles on their faces, but when Phil saw me coming he stopped smiling. He gave Adam a quick high five, nodded in my direction, and made a fast getaway. Adam didn’t stop smiling when he saw me but he did tone it down a little. In fact, he looked … what was that look? Nervous?
Sympathetic? Sorry? Oh great. That made it impossible to hate him.
“Hey, Chloe,” he said. “So …”
“Congratulations,” I said, feeling like a zombie and probably sounding like one.
“Are you okay, Chloe?”
Oh man, Adam was being NICE. Stop, Adam, stop …
“What, did you think I was gonna cry about it or something?” I sat down in the Loser Chair, the second-seat chair, which was right next to Adam; gee, it just kept getting better and better. “You’re first chair, congrats, whatever.”
“I just, you know,” Adam said. “I was just wondering.”
“You don’t look all broken up about it,” I grumbled.
“I just know you’re better than how you played in the competition, you know?”
“How do you know? Because I’m Korean? Because you think I’ve been playing the violin since I was two years old or something?”
Adam blinked.
“No, because you’re always been the best violin player in school. What is going on with you?”
“What’s going on is I found out my parents are aliens from another galaxy, which te
chnically makes ME an alien from another galaxy!” It felt like my eyeballs were giving off sparks. “Does that explain it? Are you satisfied?”
Adam leaned away from me and held up his hands, frowning.
“Whatever, Chloe. You don’t have to be so sarcastic.”
He put his violin under his chin and started tuning up. I took my violin out of its case, but instead of tuning it I just looked at it. I was still staring at it when Mr. C came out of the music office with his baton in hand. He gave me a small, semi-cheerful smile that I probably would have appreciated if looking at him didn’t make me feel totally humiliated.
“All right now, big day today, let’s congratulate all our first chairs — on bassoon, Kelly Vernick! Take a bow, Kelly!”
The room burst into applause. Kelly, red-haired and gangly, stood up with a huge grin on her face and quickly bobbed her head in all directions, including behind her where there was nothing but a wall. A bunch of people laughed.
“First-chair cello, Ben Feinberg! Take a bow, Ben!”
Ben was our ONLY cello player so it wasn’t like he had to slay a dragon or something, but everyone clapped for him anyway. He did a presidential wave with one hand.
“First-chair viola, Shelley Drake!”
WHAT??
There were a few gasps of surprise, then a round of applause as Shelley stood up, but I could only stare at her with my mouth hanging open. Shelley did that half-smile thing that always makes people think she’s stuck-up even though it really means she’s nervous, but she was looking at me with a worried crinkle in her eyebrows.
I couldn’t take it. Shelley was first chair, and I wasn’t — the natural order of the universe was completely off! I looked away, but not before seeing the hurt look come across her face.
What did she care?? It sucked, yeah, and I suddenly felt awful and sad, but it wasn’t like we were still best friends or anything. Anyway, I knew the big moment of retch was about to arrive, and sure enough …
“First-chair violin, Adam Wheeler!”
This time it wasn’t just a handful of gasps — the entire room sucked in a giant lungful of air and let it out, WUH-HUH, at the same time. Lifelong third chair violin Samantha Castle said “OH. MY. GOD,” not even trying to whisper, and then the entire backstabbing orchestra started clapping. Not just clapping, really, it was almost like people were trying to hurt their hands by banging them against each other. I don’t know which was worse, losing first chair or seeing how happy the entire orchestra was about Adam winning it.
