by Marty Chan
MARTY CHAN
© Marty Chan, 2004
Second printing 2004. Twelfth printing 2014
2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2011, 2014
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Accesss Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
Thistledown Press Ltd.
410 2nd Avenue North
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, S7K 2C3
www.thistledownpress.com
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Chan, Marty
The mystery of the frozen brains / Marty Chan.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-894345-71-2 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-77187-020-7
(html).— ISBN 978-1-77187-028-3 (pdf)
1. Chinese Canadians--Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8555.H39244M 98 2004 jC813'.54 C2004-900867-6
Cover illustration by Laura Lee Osborne
Cover and book design by Jackie Forrie
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing program.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to: Michelle for her unconditional love and support (I’ll try to keep the toilet seat down); Jay Enright for being my first best friend; Wayne Arthurson for pointing the way; R.P. MacIntyre for guiding me to the finish line; Brad Smilanich and Danny Chan because you’re my good luck guys; Kenda Gee for convincing me to write about my childhood; the gang at CBC Radio Edmonton for airing my childhood stories; Maureen Thomas, Nancy Musica, Wai Ling Lennon, the elementary students at Dovercourt, Kildare and Meyonohk (my test audience). Finally, Mom and Dad, thank you for being good sports.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
ONE
I hated secrets. The thought of hiding the truth just made my stomach turn. Whenever I had a secret, I felt like a criminal. I felt like I was doing something wrong. Something horrible. The bigger the secret, the harder it was to hide, and I sat on an elephant of a secret. If anyone ever found out, the world would change forever. That’s a very long time in my books.
I figured the best way to hide the secret from the world was to hide myself from the world. I became a shy, quiet nine-year-old wallflower. I never talked to anyone. I never made a peep in class. I never played with other students at recess. The price of protecting my secret was eating lunch alone. I paid the price without question, as long as my secret was safe.
Then my grade three teacher, Mrs. Connor, changed everything with one question. Little did she know that her question shook the castle walls that I had built around the truth. The dark, terrible truth about me, Marty Chan.
Mrs. Connor had asked the entire class, “What is the meaning of the word alienate?”
She adjusted her black glasses on the bridge of her hawk-like nose and scanned the classroom for someone to answer. If I looked at Mrs. Connor, she’d think that I wanted to answer. If I put my head down she’d assume that I didn’t know, and she would ask me out of spite. I wished I could turn invisible, but I hadn’t learned how to do that yet. Instead I stared in her general direction without making eye contact. I looked like I was trying to stare at the noon-day sun.
I hoped my off-centre, squinty gaze would convince Mrs. Connor to pass me over. I did not want to answer her question.
I knew the meaning of the word, but I didn’t want everyone else to know that I knew. “Alienate” was something you did to make everyone mad at you. I remembered the definition by breaking the word in half and adding an “h” to the second part — “aliens” were “hated.”
If I answered right, I would alienate my classmates. They would give me strange looks, like they did when I first showed up at school. They would make up stories about the weird Marty. They would hound me and try to learn how I knew answers to Mrs. Connor’s impossible questions. Eventually, they would discover my dark secret.
Mrs. Connor singled me out. “Marty, you know the answer, don’t you?”
Everyone turned and looked. I turned into a bar magnet and my classmates became iron filings. I couldn’t shake off their curious looks.
“Well,” my teacher demanded.
Mrs. Connor was the toughest person in the entire school. She dished out detentions faster than you could blink. She sent kids to the principal for chewing gum in class. She yelled at people for even thinking about doing something bad.
One time she made Eric Johnson eat an entire bar of soap because he said something that sounded like a swear. Since then, no one ever stretched their mouth wide open with their index fingers and said “I was born on pirate ship.” You did not want to make Mrs. Connor mad, so when she asked you a question, you had better say something to please her.
I looked into the narrow eyes of my teacher and stammered the answer: “Alienate is a verb that means to make someone unfriendly or hostile.”
“Correct,” she said.
The other kids were shocked that I had said something. They were even more shocked that I knew the answer. I felt my face burn from their probing stares.
Trina Brewster muttered “Smarty-Marty” and giggled.
The most popular girl in class, Trina was pretty, smart, and she wore cool clothes. Her dad owned the only swimming pool in Bouvier — my home town. Everyone wanted to be in Trina’s good books, so when she started making fun of me, the others went along. They whispered Trina’s new nickname for me and other unkind words.
Mrs. Connor growled, “Did I say you could talk?”
Dead silence. Everyone looked down. If Mrs. Connor wanted us to be quiet, she would ask a question. Normally people threw out questions to get other people to talk, but Mrs. Connor used questions to shut people up. She scanned the church mouse-quiet room with her owl eyes, poised to swoop on anyone who dared to squeak.
“You can spend the rest of the class reading chapter eight in your textbooks,” she said.
She walked to the white board at the head of class. Behind her back, Trina screwed up her face and pretended to be Mrs. Connor. She wagged her finger at Eric Johnson and mouthed our teacher’s last instruction to the class.
“That means silent reading, Miss Brewster,” barked Mrs. Connor.
Our teacher had eyes in the back of her head, and she could hear better than a dog. She knew everything that happened in her class. If she knew that you had something to hide, she just kept picking on you until you gave up the secret.
Suddenly, Mrs. Connor looked at me and asked. “Why isn’t your book open?”
Around me, everyone else had stuck their noses into their books. There were a hundred things I could have done. I could have opened my book and pretended to read. But Mrs. Connor had caught me off guard. I felt like she had just lobbed me a baseball. The right thing to do was to relax and catch it. But my hands had turned into pats of butter and I couldn’t field the ball. All I could do was watch it fall on the ground.
“I’m done,” I s
aid.
Everyone gawked at me.
“Then read the next chapter,” Mrs. Connor said.
“I’m done that one too,” I said. Why couldn’t I just shut up?
“Then keep reading, Marty.”
“I’m done the whole book.”
“Everything?”
I nodded. Around me, the kids muttered. I wished I could turn back time, but I hadn’t learned how to do that yet. Whispered questions flew around the room. Everyone wondered how I could read so fast. Rumours would be close behind. The teasing would begin all over again.
Frustrated by her noisy students, Mrs. Connor decided to get rid of the cause. She turned to me and ordered, “Go to the storage room and do some free reading.”
“But I’m done,” I said.
“Read anything you want. Anything you haven’t read yet. Go. Now!”
I yanked my Hardy Boys detective novel from the inside of my desk and got up.
Trina whispered, “He’s not normal. He’s a freak-a-zoid.”
Everyone muttered in agreement. I bolted out of the room as fast as I could. My secret was no longer safe. I stomped into the hall, swung the classroom door shut. Then I stormed toward the storage room and shoved the door open.
“Ouch! Watch it,” yelped a boy on the other side of the door. He straightened his red and blue Montreal Canadiens hockey jersey as he glared at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think anyone was in here.”
“You dumb monkey butt,” he said.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
“Duh!” He rubbed his arm where the door had hit him and flinched.
“If it hurts when you touch it, don’t touch it,” I advised.
He pulled his straight brown hair out of his eyes and sneered, “It wouldn’t hurt if you didn’t push the door into me. Stupid Anglais.”
I had heard that word before. The French kids called the English kids that, and they never said it with a smile. Anglais was not a compliment.
The French-Canadian students went to classes on the north side of my school, while my English-Canadian classmates studied on the south side. No one knew what happened on either side of the school. Rather than find out, people just made stuff up.
The English thought the French had magic powers that could turn people into frogs. The French believed the Anglais were cannibals that hungered for French meat. The only thing people knew for sure was that the French hated the Anglais, and the Anglais hated the French.
Every noon hour and recess, the Anglais and the French turned the schoolyard into a war zone. In the fall they pelted each other with crab apples. In the spring they soaked each other by kicking puddle-water. Now, in the middle of winter, they stockpiled snowballs for battle.
I didn’t belong to either side of the war. I looked different from everyone else. I had black hair, dark skin, and my eyes were narrow like almonds. As much as they disliked each other, the kids hated me more. They called me names that made my eyes burn with tears and my neck feel all tingly and hot. I didn’t want to go to school with any of them, but because I couldn’t speak French, my parents sent me to school with the Anglais.
This meant that the boy in the Montreal Canadiens jersey was an enemy. His arms looked like they were cut from stone. Mine looked like they had been fished out of a pot of cooked spaghetti. One of his thighs was as thick as my entire body. He swung the storage room door closed and cracked his gigantic knuckles. I backed away.
The tiny room offered no hiding place. Shelves filled with school supplies surrounded us. The window had chicken wire across it. My enemy stood in front of the only escape route. I ran behind the giant wooden table in the middle of the room, keeping him on the other side.
“Maybe we can work this out. We don’t have to fight,” I squeaked.
“Are you stupid?”
I smiled. Unlike my cruel classmates, this guy thought I was dumb.
“I’m gonna wipe that goofy grin off your face,” he threatened.
He snatched a white board eraser from the shelf behind him and hurled it. I ducked. It bounced off the wall. He grabbed textbooks and lobbed them across the table. None of them hit me. For the first time I was glad to be scrawny. I picked up a book to return fire. But as I cocked my arm back, Mrs. Connor stormed into the storage room.
“I could hear you from across the hall,” she yelled. What are you doing in here?”
“We weren’t doing anything,” my French foe mumbled, acting like a captured soldier.
“Would you like to explain this to the principal?”
For an instant, the French boy and I were brothers-in-arms, pitted against a common enemy. Mrs. Connor had us in her sights, and her finger twitched on the trigger.
Suddenly words fired out of my mouth. “It was my fault. I was fooling around. Don’t blame him.”
The French boy shrugged, signalling that he agreed with my confession.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Marty,” Mrs. Connor clucked.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
“Get back to class.”
“Yes, Mrs. Connor,” I mumbled as I headed out of the storage room.
I looked back at the French boy, but he just glared at me. I was alienating everyone I met. I wished I could make friends, but I had not learned how to do that yet.
TWO
By lunch time, Trina Brewster had spread rumours about me all over school. She took students on a freak-a-zoid tour, and I was the only attraction. Everyone crowded around my table in the middle of the cafeteria, while Trina fielded their many questions.
Eric Johnson shoved his way to the front of the group and asked, “Why is he so smart?”
Trina smirked, “Good question Eric. It’s because he is a robot.”
All the kids leaned forward and oohed. Eric Johnson rapped my head twice.
“Ouch,” I said.
“Hey, he doesn’t feel like a robot,” Eric accused.
Trina quickly recovered, “That’s because his brain is in his bum.”
I got up, put my cafeteria tray behind me and shuffled out of the crowded room. Trina and her tour group followed me, searching for wires in my butt. Eric Johnson yelled out that he saw something. He stepped on a piece of toilet paper that was stuck to my shoe. The tour group jostled each other to get a closer look.
I scrambled out of the cafeteria and sprinted down the hall. I turned the corner and planted my face in the smelly T-shirt worn by Jacques Boissonault. I staggered back and saw the tall French boy brushing Marty germs off his shirt. Beside him, his twin brother Jean chuckled. The Boissonault brothers were the toughest guys in the entire school. They lived on a farm, and people said they were strong enough to tip their dad’s cows off their hooves, and mean enough to do the same to humans.
“Stupid Chinaman,” Jacques barked. “Watch where you’re going.”
Jean snickered. “He probably couldn’t see where he was going because his eyes are always closed.”
Jacques laughed. “They’re not closed. They’re just squinty.”
“I’ll be more careful next time,” I mumbled. I walked away and let them talk to my back. Their bad words didn’t sting as much when I walked away from them.
Jacques barked, “We’re not done with you, Chinaman. Come back here.”
Jean stopped his brother.
“Jacques, chill. The Rake’s coming.”
“Next time,” Jacques yelled.
I turned to see the Boissonaults smile at Principal Henday, who everyone secretly called “The Rake.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Henday,” the Boissonaults chimed in unison.
“Keeping out of trouble, boys?” asked the tall, reedy man.
“Yes sir,” they said.
“Day’s still young,” he replied. “I’ll be watching you both.”
“Yes sir,” the brothers mumbled, less polite.
Mr. Henday strolled into the cafeteria in time to slow Trina’s t
our. I scurried down the hall, careful to avoid bumping into anyone else. I kept one eye open for my new French enemy but saw no sign of him.
I hid in my homeroom class and read my Hardy Boys detective novel. Unfortunately, Trina found me and gathered her tour group at the doorway of the classroom. They jockeyed for the best sight line. Trina instructed everyone to closely observe my behaviour, as if I were some kind of caged bear. As Trina gleefully made fun of me, I wondered if I should have told Mrs. Connor about her trying to cheat off me last week.
The tour group timed how long it took for me to flip the page. They counted out the seconds so loud that I couldn’t concentrate. Finally I just closed the book and put my head on my desk.
Trina said, “Now he’s absorbing the book through his hair. They’re like wires. That’s why they’re so straight.”
The group wanted to know how I could be so smart. Trina claimed microchips in my forehead stored everything and pushed my eyes into their slanty shape. I wished I could shut my ears as easily as I could shut my eyes.
At the end of the day, I sprinted out of school like a wet cat scrambles out of a bath. I knew Trina’s freak-a-zoid tour would probably follow me home, and I wanted no part of it. I knew my classmates would not stop until they discovered my secret. And worse of all, I knew my French foe would be looking for me.
My class let out a few minutes before the French classes. I stuffed my books into a paper bag and sprinted down the hall in my stocking feet. I slid to a stop in the boot room and jumped into my boots. Down the hall, Trina rounded up people for the freak-a-zoid tour. I hustled out of the building, but my boots were only half on. I scrunched my toes to hang on to the boots. Snow slid inside the boots and melted into my socks, which made everything icky and slowed me down.
I put my paper bag down and pulled my boots up. Behind me, Trina led her tour out of the building. However, Eric got bored of the tour and started to tickle Trina through her winter coat. She howled for help, and I wanted to rescue her. Her girl friends jumped into the fray and a tickle war started.
Before anyone spotted me, I snuck away with my bag of books. My parents refused to buy me a backpack because they wanted to save money. Instead, they made me use paper bags from their grocery store.