ELIZA BING
IS (NOT)
A BIG, FAT
QUITTER
Carmella Van Vleet
Holiday House / New York
Copyright © 2014 by Carmella Van Vleet
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
www.holidayhouse.com
ISBN 978-0-8234-3139-7 (ebook)w
ISBN 978-0-8234-3140-3 (ebook)r
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Van Vleet, Carmella.
Eliza Bing is (not) a big, fat quitter / by Carmella Van Vleet. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: After learning she cannot take a cake decorating class with her best friend, partly because her parents consider her a quitter, eleven-year-old Eliza tries to prove herself by sticking with a taekwondo class all summer.
ISBN 978-0-8234-2944-8 (hardcover)
[1. Tae kwon do—Fiction. 2. Martial arts—Fiction. 3. Determination (Personality trait)—Fiction. 4. Family life—Fiction. 5. Attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.V378Eli 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013015279
For Abbey—my favorite girl in the whole world
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my editor, Julie Amper, and all the talented, kind, and dedicated people at Holiday House, including Sally Morgridge, who championed Eliza from the beginning. And to Sylvie Frank, who introduced me to the fold.
I’d also like to deliver a crate of dark chocolate to my agent, Marie Lamba, who turned up at precisely (and I do mean precisely) the right moment! Thank you for choosing me to be your first; I’m honored.
To my critique group, aka the MiGs, Kate Fall, Christina Farley, Susan Laidlaw, Andrea Mack, and Debbie Ridpath Ohi: You guys are amazing writers and even better friends. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t also mention the tiara-wearing Diane Bailey, who helped turn a ragtag manuscript into something worthy of the ball.
Thank you to Rebecca Mette for crying in the right places. (It could have been the pregnancy hormones. But I’ll take it!) And to Stephen Mette, who once told me, “Don’t be nervous, be awesome.” It’s good advice even when you’re not staring down a pine board that needs breaking.
Thank you Casey Lee for generously and patiently helping me with my Korean.
Thanks also to Tony Boles for being an enthusiastic resource of all things taekwondo, and to my dojang family. It takes courage to step on any martial-art mat, and I’m inspired by all of you who show up and work hard every week. I’d like to especially thank the women black belts I’ve trained with over the years: Amy, Brenda, Elizabeth, Rebecca, Sarah, and Stacy. I want to be like you when I grow up.
And, of course, my never-ending gratitude goes to Jim, Matt, Sam, and Abbey. You are my sun moon stars rain.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book contains numerous Korean words. There is a list of these words, their pronunciations, and their definitions at the end of the book to help you as you read.
Translating the Korean language into English is not easy. Like all languages, dialects cause pronunciations to vary from area to area. In addition, each martial arts school may use slightly different terms. I have done my best to use the spelling and pronunciation that the World Taekwondo Federation uses. I have also consulted people who speak Korean. If I’ve missed the mark on occasion, I apologize. Any errors are mine.
On a final note, one of the characters in this book is testing for her green belt. It should be pointed out that ranking systems vary by school. In other words, a green belt at one school may be a different color or level somewhere else. The ranking system I use here is a fairly traditional one. It is also the one we use at my taekwondo school, and therefore the one I’m most familiar with.
PB AND J
I was peanut butter, and Tony was jelly. That’s what our teacher called us after we designed The Tasty Pastry for our fifth-grade social-studies project. Which, FYI, we got a big, fat A on.
“This is so cooool,” I said as I wrapped an apron around myself. It was day three of summer, and Dad had dropped me off at the bakery Tony’s family owned so I could hang out.
Tony smiled and raised his eyebrow. When Tony first showed up at school, everyone thought that was cool and tried to copy him. I even taped my eyebrow up so it could get used to being in that position. All I managed to do was yank out a bunch of hair when I pulled the tape off.
“The bakery is busy,” I noticed out loud.
“Yepperoni!” Tony said, breaking out an Italian accent.
I laughed so hard I got the attention of a nearby cake decorator. She frowned.
Tony ignored her. That was another thing I liked about Tony. Actually, there were lots of things I liked about him. But my favorite was that he never called me names like the other kids. Things like Dizzy Lizzy (which didn’t even make sense because my name is Eliza, not Lizzy) and Lame Brain (which didn’t even rhyme). And when he found out why I went down to the nurse’s office each day after second recess, all he did was shrug.
Tony picked up the piping bags on the counter and handed me one. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” I said, remembering to use my inside voice that time.
We were supposed to squirt chocolate cream inside cupcakes. That’s what Tony had been working on before I came. Tony’s mom seemed surprised when I showed up. But on the last day of school, Tony said I could stop by his bakery if I wanted. Any time.
I couldn’t believe I was there. I mean, I’d visited once before when Tony and I were doing our project. But this was different. I was really working in a shop! There were pretty, sugary-smelling cakes, cookies, and pastries everywhere. And real, live bakers with flour on their clothes. It was just like the Sweet Caroline Cakes TV show.
“It’s easy once you get the hang of it,” Tony said, showing me how to fill the cupcakes.
We worked for an hour. Tony’s whole batch was perfect. I made about a dozen good ones. I kept squeezing the bag of cream too hard, which caused the cupcakes to explode. I had to say “Oops, sorry. Oops, sorry,” like a billion times. It was a bona fide cake-tastrophe.
“Clean up in aisle one,” Tony said after surveying the damage.
I started giggling and couldn’t stop. The grouchy cake decorator was frowning again. Tony’s dad came over and told us to take a break and get some cookies from the front case.
“Hey. I’ve been thinking about our shop’s slogan,” I said as Tony and I ate our snack at the little table in front of the bakery. He didn’t say anything so I kept talking.
“This one is really good. What about ‘Sweets for my peeps? Get it? Peeps. Like people?”
“Oh right. Our shop,” he said.
I laughed.
Holy cheese and crackers! How could Tony forget The Tasty Pastry? It wasn’t just a school project. We were really going to do it someday. He was going to be a world-famous pastry chef. And since I had watched every episode of Sweet Caroline Cakes at least three times (including the one where she won the Ohio Cake-Off), Tony said I could be in charge of cakes while he made everything else.
At least that was the plan.
THE BIG FAT NO
My dad says some ideas are like Venus flytraps and that lots of times, I’m the bug. I don’t know if it’s true or not; but when the summer brochure for the community center came in the mail, I circled Cakes with Caroline with a red marker. Then I dog-eared the page and left the brochure open on the counter for Mom.
Sweet Caroline was the nicest person on TV. She always treated clients like old friends and didn’t ye
ll at her employees. She ended every episode by looking at the camera and saying, “Be sweet to those you meet.”
Tony was already signed up for the class, which was being held in a room filled with kitchenettes where you could work with real ovens and wear real chef hats. Even though cakes weren’t his specialty, he still thought it was important to know how to do them. And the bakers at his parents’ shop didn’t have the time to teach him.
After I got home from hanging out with Tony at the bakery, I went into the kitchen to grab a hot dog from the fridge and ask Mom if she’d registered me yet.
When she saw me, Mom stopped rinsing dishes and sat down at the kitchen table.
“Come have a seat,” she said.
Being asked to sit down is never a good sign.
I broke off an end of the cold hot dog and dangled it above Bear. She wagged her stumpy poodle tail so hard her whole backside shook, but then she remembered her manners and sat down. I gave the piece to Bear and then took my own bite.
“Eliza. Honey,” Mom said. (Honey isn’t a good sign, either.) “Dad and I talked it over, and we decided it wasn’t a good idea for you to take the cake-decorating class.”
I forgot the swallow-first-then-talk rule and choked a little. “Why not?” I asked between coughs.
Mom frowned. “Well,” she said, “the class is twice as expensive as all the other classes. Plus you have to buy a book and extra materials. At the moment, we just can’t afford it. Not with Dad changing career directions.”
Changing career directions was code for “losing his job and going back to college.” It meant I heard, “We can’t afford it,” as often as I heard Mom say, “I can’t today. I have to work.”
“But Mom . . .”
“Isn’t there another class you’d like to take instead?” She gave me a hopeful smile.
I crossed my arms and gave her my best stink eye. “No!”
NO J
I was too mad to eat so I gave Bear the rest of the hot dog. Then I grabbed the phone, locked myself in the bathroom, and called Tony.
“Oh man,” he said when I told him the bad news. “That sucks raw eggs.”
“I know! It’s so unfair.”
“Maybe you could pay for the extra stuff,” Tony suggested. “Do you have any money?”
Even though I was on the phone, I shook my head. “I only have ten dollars.”
“That’s not enough,” Tony said.
“Nope.”
I thought he might offer to share the money he got from helping at his family’s bakery, but he didn’t.
Neither of us said anything for a minute. I tugged on my lucky rubber band, the one I wore around my ankle. It snapped in half.
“So I guess I’ll let you know how the class goes,” Tony finally said.
Whoomph! That took all the air out of my chest.
“You’re still gonna take it?” I asked. “Without me?”
“Duh,” Tony said.
When I didn’t say anything, Tony went on in a nicer voice. “If I’m gonna be a pastry chef, I gotta get started.”
“I think you’re being selfish,” I told him.
“Well, I think you’re being selfish. Being a pastry chef is my thing.”
“Mine too!” I said. “Well, cake decorating anyway.”
“Since when?”
I could feel the anger rolling around my insides. Why didn’t he think I was serious? I talked about Sweet Caroline’s cake show all the time. He said that’s why he picked me to be his partner on the create-your-own-business project. He told me he could tell I was going be a great cake decorator someday.
I opened my mouth to take a deep breath, but instead of air coming in, something else popped out. “Jerk.”
Tony hung up.
PB without J.
That’s what I was.
NOT THE MARTIAL-ARTS TYPE
Heads up: I’m switching channels. I do that sometimes. On Wednesday afternoon, I went to the community center with Dad and Sam, my older dork brother. Mom had to work an extra shift at the hospital. (Big surprise.)
When I said I wanted to stay home alone, Mom told me to look in the mirror and introduce myself to the girl there, ha-ha. At least she didn’t point to the water spot on the kitchen ceiling or the strawberry-syrup stain on the carpet or the picture of me with uneven bangs like she sometimes did. For the record, I did those things before I was diagnosed. And when I was much younger.
“I’m eleven,” I reminded Mom.
“Yeah. I know,” she said, taking her nurse’s scrubs out of the dryer. “I was there when you were born.”
I didn’t think her joke was funny. And I still had to ride along to the community center and sit bored out of my mind at a table in the hallway while Sam took a taekwondo class and Dad cut out leaves from construction paper. By the way, my dad’s not a weirdo who likes to cut paper leaves for fun. He’s just a guy who got laid off from his desk job and went back to college to become a teacher. Which, if you think about it, is also kind of a desk job. The leaves were for one of his classes. They were doing a unit on making bulletin boards.
When taekwondo class was over, Sam had a scowl on his face. That wasn’t unusual. Mom liked to joke that all fifteen-year-old boys take a secret oath to scowl a minimum of five hours a day.
“I’m done,” he said.
“Okay,” Dad said, standing up. “Just let me and Eliza pack up our stuff.”
“No,” Sam said. “I mean, I don’t want to go back.”
Dad narrowed his eyes.
“I’m not the martial-arts type,” Sam said.
“You can’t decide that after one class,” Dad told him.
“Sure I can,” Sam insisted.
“So you’re going to waste all your hard-earned money?” Dad asked.
That seemed strange to me, too. Sam had used his lawn-mowing money to pay for half of the class fee. He’d been all gung ho ever since he found out one of the other drummers in the marching band took jujitsu or something like that.
“It’s my money to blow,” Sam said. “Besides, you don’t want me to break a finger, do you? I can’t hold sticks if I’m wearing a cast.”
“I’m sure it’s perfectly safe,” Dad said.
“It’s just a bunch of babies,” Sam said, sweeping his hand in the direction of the kids in white uniforms. “I’m the oldest one.”
Just then a pretty teenage girl walked by. Sam blushed.
“What about her?” Dad said, pointing. “She looks around sixteen.”
The girl noticed we were talking about her and gave us a shy smile.
Sam waited until she was out of earshot. “Dad. She’s a black belt.”
“So?”
“So I’m not,” Sam said.
Dad considered this a moment. “You’re really gonna let your pride get in the way?”
“I don’t want to come back next week,” Sam said, tilting his chin. That was Sam’s way of saying he’d made up his mind.
“Fine.” That was Dad’s way of saying, “Do whatever you want.”
Great, I thought. I’m dying to take a class but can’t. And Sam gets to take a class and then quits?
In the history of all unfair things in the world, this had to be in the top ten.
THE PART WHERE I FOUND OUT THE TRUTH
If you hide on the first step above the landing, you can hear what people are saying in our kitchen. This is how I discovered why Mom and Dad really said no to the cake class.
“I just don’t think it’s such a good idea,” Mom said.
“I know,” Dad said. “But I can’t help but feel guilty. It’s my fault money is tight.”
Mom started banging some pots around. She had to start dinner because Dad forgot to write a Sticky Note, reminding himself to do it. Sticky Notes were Dad’s thing. He used so many that Mom bought them in bulk at Save Club.
“Should we have spaghetti or spaghetti?” Mom asked.
Dad laughed and told her spaghetti sounded goo
d. (My parents are so weird.) There were more cooking noises. Pots and spoons banging. Water running. The refrigerator being opened and closed. I listened hard.
“What’s really going on?” Dad asked. His voice had turned serious again.
There was a pause; then Mom spoke. “I’m worried it’ll be just another thing she quits after a couple of weeks.”
I nearly toppled off the step. Did I hear that right?
Mom went on, “I think the only reason she wants to is because the woman from the cable show is teaching it.”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s her favorite show,” Dad said.
“Nothing,” Mom said. “Except I’d bet my last cup of coffee that the novelty will wear off after a few weeks.”
“Yeah, but who knows? Maybe she won’t quit this time,” Dad said.
I missed the rest of the conversation because Sam came out of his bedroom and caught me on the stairs.
“Eavesdrop much?” he asked.
I glared at him, and he shrugged. “Just saying,” he said.
“Be a pain much?” I asked. “Just saying.”
Sam grinned; but instead of getting into it with him, I went to my room and threw myself down on the bed to think.
QUITTER
I’m worried it’ll be just another thing she quits. Who knows? Maybe she won’t quit this time.
What Mom and Dad said played over and over in my head.
I said it out loud. “Quit. Quit. Quit.” It sounded weird. Like a funny bird call.
“Quitter.”
It sounded hard. Like a kick. Not like a bird at all.
I couldn’t believe it.
Mom and Dad said I was a quitter.
It made my heart hurt.
I thought about all the things I’d tried. Junior Scouts had too many people. Gymnastics had too much waiting. Tap had too many blisters. And piano had too many rules. (“Keep your wrists high and fingers soft,” Miss Logan always told me. And, “You must practice twenty minutes every day.” Bah!) I wasn’t a quitter. I just got bored fast. But that’s the way my brain works. Fast. Before I figured out how to slow my thoughts down, they were like those go-carts at the arcade that buzz round and round the track so crazy that they miss the guy with the checkered flag, pointing to the exit ramp.
Eliza Bing Is (NOT) a Big, Fat Quitter Page 1