“Are you okay?”
I look up to see Chad Renquist towering over me.
Where are those superhero powers when you need them? If only I could evaporate into thin air.
A couple of his buddies are standing by, elbowing each other and laughing like it’s all some big joke. Those must be the guys who were making fun of me.
Chad isn’t laughing. I’ll give him that. He actually looks kind of embarrassed by the whole thing. But even if he wasn’t the one who started it, he didn’t stop it. I want to believe that he’s a nice person, but he was walking with them. At any rate, this isn’t the special moment that I’ve always wanted to have with Chad. I’d rather he just went away.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
He doesn’t offer to give me a hand, and I don’t ask him for help. I roll over and hoist myself onto my hands and knees, and stand up by myself.
He shrugs and walks away. His friends follow. I feel a pang as I watch them go down the hall.
Lunchtime migration patterns go like this: The Beautiful Ones gravitate to the table nearest the pizza. This means Chad and his buddies—the first-string football players, the track stars and basketball heroes. It also means Madison and Shari and other cheerleader types, daughters of dentists and lawyers and bank presidents who have so many outfits hanging in their closets that they don’t repeat the same ensemble for at least a month.
At the next table are the lesser athletes and the hangers-on. Some of them might be called upon to fetch more pizza for the ruling class. Some of the smarter of these kids do homework for the Beautiful Ones. For the record, Chad has always been pretty smart. His name is on the honor roll every month. I’m pretty sure he does his own homework. I guess he can’t help it that he’s good at everything and a god.
Off in the nether regions is where the geeks sit. The chess club members, and the kids who are into making robots. Jason Tran is a member of this group. I’ve seen some of these kids—boys, mostly—reading Gadget Girl. The jocks and cheerleaders? I don’t know if they read at all. Maybe Seventeen and Sports Illustrated.
Whitney and I sit with the invisibles, the bland, hyper-normal kids who get decent grades, but don’t stand out in any way. Technically, with my physical quirks and Whitney’s personal style (today she’s wearing a red and white checked shirt tied at the waist in homage to Marilyn Monroe in The Misfits), we’re not quite invisible, but the kids at this table offer us safe haven. We are less likely to get hit by the spit balls and other projectiles launched from the jock table if we sit here. It’s a safe zone, under the radar. Except, today, for some reason, there are no seats available at the invisible table.
Then I figure it out. One of the computer geeks and his sidekick are sitting in our usual places. The boy is next to one of the nondescript girls. Except today, she’s not quite so nondescript. She’s wearing mascara, for one thing, and her face is all lit up. The computer guy’s posture is a little better than usual. He’s talking to the girl, then they’re laughing and she’s touching his arm. Ah, young love. I look away.
“Well, we can sit with the geeks,” Whitney says.
“Yeah, okay. At least they won’t bother us.”
We bump past other students to the two empty chairs. No one pays much attention to us as we settle in. We’re still invisible, which is good.
From where I’m sitting, Chad is directly in my line of vision. Even if I didn’t want to look at him, it would be hard not to. At the moment, his hand is raised as if he is holding a football. He fake passes it, and I imagine the pigskin coming to me.
“I have a new crush,” Whitney whispers in my ear, breaking me out of my daydream.
“Oh, yeah? Who is it now?”
Whitney doesn’t have crushes on boys at school. Hers are no risk, painless. See, she gets hung up on old movie stars in their heydays. Most of the guys she’s pined after are grandpas now or already dead. Some of them—Montgomery Clift, Rock Hudson—were gay in real life, but up on screen they were the perfect straight fantasy partners.
“Sal Mineo,” she says. “He’s totally hot.”
“Sal Mineo? Sounds Italian.”
“Sicilian,” Whitney says, digging into her chicken salad sandwich. “But he was cast as a Mexican in Giant and a Sioux in a Disney movie called Tonka. Oh, and he played a Jewish emigrant in Exodus.”
Of course this makes her happy, since she is Jewish—the only Jewish girl in the eighth grade. But why not cast a Mexican in that Mexican role? Or a Native American as a Sioux? Do they think that no one can tell the difference?
“Hey, I saw Giant last week on cable,” Luke Parker pipes up from two seats down. “A classic film!”
Whitney turns to him. “Oh, I love that movie,” she squeals. And in that moment, when her back is turned to me, I feel like I’m alone.
9
It’s my turn to make dinner. First, I make rice. We have a Japanese-style rice cooker that steams the grains perfectly every time. I can measure the rice, wash it, and add water pretty much with my one good hand. All I have to do to get it cooking is push a button.
In the meantime, I do some homework, check e-mail, take a look at the number of hits on my webpage since yesterday—ten!—then go back into the kitchen. I pull open the freezer door. Cold air blasts into my face. The inventory is getting low. There’s nothing but a box of fish sticks, some frozen enchiladas, a package of peas, and a pizza. Since we had Italian last night, I guess it’ll be fish sticks and peas tonight.
I open the cupboard and take out a copper-bottomed saucepan and fill it halfway with water, then set it on the burner. Easy enough. I hold the frozen pea package against the counter by leaning against it. I cut the top off with a pair of scissors. The cold against my middle makes me flinch, and the bag drops to the floor, spilling a few peas. They go bouncing across the linoleum. I’ll get those later. I pick up the bag and dump the rest of the peas, which are clumped together, into the saucepan. I open the package of fish sticks in the same way, but manage not to drop them. Those go onto a plate, then into the microwave.
The microwave makes everything easier. And when you’re used to eating frozen food, going out to dinner becomes a huge treat. But sometimes, it would be nice to have a home-cooked meal. If I were Gadget Girl, or even a normally-abled person, I’d be able to whip up all sorts of gourmet concoctions in no time at all. I imagine rolled roasts, Chinese dumplings that you pinch together with both hands, even rice balls.
I set the table, one plate at a time, one glass and then another. When the microwave dings, I call out to Mom.
“Raoul is coming to dinner next week,” Mom tells me as she sits down to eat.
“Oh,” I say. “Great.”
I’ll finally get to meet this guy, this music professor/disc jockey that Mom’s been seeing for almost six months now. But what are we going to feed him? Frozen enchiladas and pizza? Not if she wants to impress him. Maybe she’ll remember to hit up the store for once. Maybe she will actually cook.
The last time we had a guy over for dinner was a year and a half ago. That was when she was dating Rolfe, the foreign correspondent. She didn’t see him much because he was always flying off to one war-torn country or another. Most of their relationship played out via e-mail and phone calls, although they had a weekend together in New York, during which I stayed at my grandparents’ house, and another weekend in Miami. That time I spent a couple of nights at Whitney’s.
The evening that Rolfe came for dinner, the first time I met him, Mom ordered Chinese take-out.
He came to the door with a huge bouquet of roses for Mom, and a jigsaw puzzle for me. When I dumped all the pieces onto the coffee table in the living room and started to turn them all over with just one hand, he apologized.
“Why are you sorry?” Mom asked. “She’s good at puzzles. Amazingly good, in fact.”
She’s right. By the time we sat down to eat, I’d already finished the border.
I noticed that whenever his eyes landed on m
e, he looked away quickly, which was odd, considering the places he’d been. He’d probably seen lots of people who’d lost arms and legs to landmines, crippled beggars in the streets. Maybe he just wasn’t comfortable with kids.
After dinner, when the white cartons of moo goo gai pan and kang po chicken had been emptied, I went to my room to do homework, but I could hear their voices coming through the register in my room.
I heard Rolfe say, “Come with me.” I imagined him begging on his knees, pulling her hand.
And Mom’s reply: “What about Aiko? What about school? How will she keep up her art? Her Japanese?”
I knew that she wasn’t worried about my study of art or Japanese. After all, she was an artist. She could teach me about colors and clay. And I was studying Japanese on my own. For my foreign language elective, I’d chosen Spanish. Maybe she was worried that he was trying to lure us to some remote country that didn’t have trained physical therapists. Or maybe she was just casting about for an excuse not to go. Maybe she was ready to break up with him.
I heard him say, “… excellent facilities… independence… be good for her.”
I couldn’t make out my mother’s muffled reply.
Not long after that, I heard a door slam and then, outside, a car engine rev up and fade away. Then my mother cranked up the blues. It was loud and I couldn’t concentrate on my homework, but I didn’t ask her to turn it down.
The next morning when I stumbled out of my room for breakfast, I found a brochure on the kitchen counter. It was for some residential school in Massachusetts. The photos showed kids in wheelchairs, kids with braces and helmets and crutches, all smiling while kind-looking adults hovered in the background. I felt a moment of panic, thinking that I was about to be sent away. I’d never see Whitney again. And my mother would be off in the Congo or the streets of Baghdad. I’d only see her via webcam, or maybe she’d come back for holidays.
When I heard her footsteps coming down the hall, I put the brochure down and moved away from it. I pretended that I hadn’t seen it at all. Mom didn’t mention the school or Rolfe or why he had left so suddenly. That afternoon when I came home, I looked around the kitchen till I found the brochure. It had been shredded into pieces and dumped into the trash. I breathed out a sigh of relief.
We never saw Rolfe again.
I can’t help wondering if dinner next week will be Mom’s last date with Raoul.
10
In biology class we’re dissecting a frog. Or at least Melody, my lab partner, is. I’m not so good with a scalpel, so I’m just observing. With my hand resting steady on the page, I can draw the frog’s innards and label the parts. I try not to breathe in the smell of formaldehyde.
Luke is over at the next table with his partner, Jason Tran. He’s obviously the designated drawer. Jason is bent over the frog in fierce concentration, while Luke keeps looking over at me. Which is odd. I’ve never really been on his radar before, at least not as far as I can tell. Once, when I catch him looking at me, he smiles and gives a little wave.
I look behind me, but there’s nothing but a wall-length poster of a flayed human body, veins and arteries running throughout like rivers and creeks.
I nod back, but I don’t smile.
When he’s busy drawing, I check him out. He looks different today somehow. Although he’s wearing the same nondescript khakis as usual, along with a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of some obscure punk rock band. It must be the hair. Yeah, definitely the hair. Until now, he’s worn it all shaggy, but now it’s actually cut so that his ears and a strip of his neck show. It looks like he’s even fluffed it up with gel. I have a hard time picturing Luke primping in front of a mirror. I can’t help but wonder what the deal is.
Finally, at the end of class, when we’re packing the frog back into formaldehyde, Luke sidles over.
“Hey, Aiko,” he says.
I’m almost surprised he knows my name.
“So,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “Do you know if, uh, Whitney is going out with anyone?”
I take a long look at him. He’s no Sal Mineo, that’s for sure. The hair is an improvement, I’ll admit, but a zit is about to explode on his forehead. Plus, he’s totally lacking in mystery. He doesn’t brood or curl his lip. He doesn’t wear tight black T-shirts that show off well-defined muscles. He’s not handsome or dead or gay—definitely not Whitney’s type.
“Actually,” I say, drawing out the words, “she’s got a thing for someone else. He doesn’t go to this school.”
He fakes a goofy grin. A blush rises to his cheeks. “That’s cool. I figured, y’know, that she was probably going out with someone already.”
He turns away, and I almost feel sorry for him. But then I imagine Whitney and Luke huddled together at lunch at the geek table every day while I sit across the cafeteria, forgotten among the invisibles. Or Whitney and Luke sharing a tub of popcorn in a dark movie theater while I’m home alone, staring at the ceiling.
It’s for the best, I tell myself. It would never work out. But another part of me knows that I’m lying. The thing is, I don’t want anyone to take Whitney away from me.
I watch Luke scoop up his biology book and shuffle out of the room, head down, shoulders slouched. And then I put him out of my head. I grab my own books and make my way to my next class.
11
When I get home, I’m surprised to find a strange guy behind the kitchen counter, peeling a hard-boiled egg. He’s wearing a frilly pink apron over faded jeans and a black T-shirt that shows off a tattoo of the Virgin of Guadalupe. His hair is as short as an army recruit’s, but he has a line of whiskers down the center of his chin. A gourmet magazine is open on the counter and Spanish music is playing in the background.
“Hi,” he says, flashing me a grin. “You must be Aiko.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
I see that there’s an open toolbox on the counter, filled with gadgets. Good thing he brought his own tools, because Mom doesn’t have that kind of equipment. You’re lucky if you can find a can opener in our drawers.
“I’m Raoul,” he says.
He puts down the egg he’s been peeling, runs some tap water over his hands, and wipes them on his apron. He reaches out to shake my hand.
I’m so surprised that I can’t think of anything to say at first.
“Uh, nice to meet you.”
I take a deep whiff: cinnamon and rum. “What are you making?”
“Chilean empanadas. I’m kind of a foodie. I like to try different things, but it’s no fun cooking just for myself.”
I nod as if I know what he’s talking about. My mouth starts to water.
“Smells good, so far,” I say. “Sounds interesting.” I look over his shoulder at the array of ingredients spread over the counter: raisins, olive oil, hard-boiled eggs, beef, phyllo pastry. “It looks very complicated.”
He nods. “It’ll be awhile.”
“Do you need some help?” It seems kind of unfair to make him cook for us, since Mom’s the one who invited him over for dinner. Maybe I could heat up those enchiladas to go with the feast.
“Come back in an hour,” he says, “and you can help me make the salad.”
In my room, I dig the latest pages of Gadget Girl out of my desk and get back to work.
Chaz, who is hiking in the mountains, is seared by the breath of a dragon. His leg is burned and he can’t walk. Enter Gadget Girl! She battles the dragon with her Swiss Army knife, then uses the screwdriver part to drill into the earth until it releases a spurt of milky water, which has restorative powers. Chaz looks on in amazement as Gadget Girl bathes his leg in the water. Not only do his burns disappear, but also his charred jeans are repaired!
I’ve just added a final wildflower to the scene when I hear the cry of “Dinner!”
Oops. So much for helping with the salad.
I put away my drawing materials and head to the table. Raoul has set out a platter of empanadas—delicate golden pastries filled with
spiced meat, raisins, eggs, and olives—a green salad, and quinoa mixed with cilantro, avocado, and corn.
“It looks delicious!” Mom says.
“Mmm.” I agree. This is not the place to be tonight if you’re on a diet, which I’m not. I intend to pig out. Who knows when we’ll get another meal like this?
Once our plates are heaped with food, Raoul turns to me.
“So what kind of music do you like, Aiko?”
My mouth is full, so it takes a moment before I can answer.
“Lately, I’ve been listening to a lot of Chatmonchy.”
He frowns. “Chat munchie?”
Obviously he’s never heard of them. Well, probably no one else around here has either. I discovered them on YouTube. I introduced Whitney to the band, but she doesn’t like listening to foreign lyrics. She likes to be able to understand all the words and sing along.
“They’re an all-girl Japanese band,” I say. “From Shikoku.”
I look over at Mom to see if mention of my father’s island brings about a reaction. It’s hard to tell. There’s nothing dreamy or distant in her eyes, no indication that she’s thinking about Otosan. Dad. Instead, she reaches over and touches Raoul’s arm, just below the tattoo.
“Aiko really enjoys your radio show,” she says, “Don’t you, Aiko?’ ”
I make a humming noise, just to be polite.
“What’s your theme next week?” Mom asks.
“I’m thinking Japanese court music,” he says. “You know, flutes. Shakuhachi.”
I doubt that he’d like Chatmonchy, with their guitar riffs and perky vocals, or Bump of Chicken or the other J-pop bands I listen to.
“Oh, wonderful!” Mom gushes. “We’ll be sure to listen!”
Next Mom raves about the food, telling him that we hardly ever get to eat so well.
Gadget Girl Page 3